


what say you to my suit

by girodelles_waifu



Series: Rose and Blade (what say you to my suit) [1]
Category: Romeo & Juliet - Takarazuka Revue, Romeo And Juliet - All Media Types, Romeo And Juliet - Shakespeare, Romeo et Juliette - Presgurvic, Takarazuka Revue Musicals
Genre: F/M, Humor, M/M, Romance, Secret Identity, paris is a human disaster in somehow the exact way that verona needs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-06
Updated: 2020-01-01
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 23,331
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21691984
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/girodelles_waifu/pseuds/girodelles_waifu
Summary: In which Paris is too focused on chasing after Tybalt to realize he's in Romeo and Juliet.
Relationships: Juliet Capulet/Romeo Montague, Mercutio/Benvolio Montague, Paris/Tybalt (Romeo and Juliet)
Series: Rose and Blade (what say you to my suit) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591387
Comments: 109
Kudos: 106





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic should fit with most iterations of the play or Presgurvic musical, but is most heavily based on the 2012 Takarazuka production of Romeo et Juliette, with Masaki Ryuu as Tybalt and Shimon Yuriya as Paris (as pictured: https://imgur.com/a/3RdOzn6).
> 
> Art of The Boys: https://abstractcactus.tumblr.com/post/190831682705

“Count Escalus!” Paris jerks awake at the pounding on the door of his room, rolling off the hard bed and landing on the floor amidst the remnants of last night’s farewell party. “Count Escalus?” the innkeeper calls through the door again. “Your carriage has arrived.”

“Send my luggage down,” Paris calls back, kicking a discarded wineglass aside as he scrambles to his feet. “Won’t be a minute!”

Somehow, over the course of that last raucous party with all his classmates before they finally split up to go their separate ways from Mantua, one of his boots had ended up on top of the wardrobe next to his Parman friend Fabrizio’s doublet. The other (after several minutes’ searching) finally reveals itself behind one of the floor-length window curtains. Paris yanks them both on with a silent prayer that nobody decided to prank him after he fell asleep last night, then tosses a gold scarf over his shirt to hide the missing buttons.

His hair refuses to stay up, and he’s still struggling with the pins as he runs down the stairs, wincing at the bright sun as he enters the courtyard where his uncle’s carriage is standing. One of the footmen holds the door open for him as he scrambles in.

“Hello, cousin.”

“Mrcfmm!” Paris takes the spare pins out of his mouth and tries again. “Mercutio! I didn’t know you were coming.” _God, I’m going to have to make conversation now._ His head aches at the thought.

“Uncle said he wanted to get me out of the way for the day.” Mercutio looks no happier about sharing a carriage for the next several hours with a cousin he hasn’t seen in eight years. He watches Paris pin finish pinning his hair back up with more distaste than Paris thinks is exactly fair, since Mercutio’s own hairstyle couldn’t exactly be described as simple.

The first few hours of the carriage ride pass in silence, except for Mercutio idly kicking at the floor under his bench, and the quiet scratching of his pen as he sketches in a notebook.

Paris tries to remember what Mercutio had been like when he first left for Florence at fourteen. How old had he been then, ten? Twelve? He mainly remembers his younger cousin being noisy and annoying, and avoiding him whenever they ran into each other on visits to their uncle’s estate. For that matter, what had he himself been like at fourteen? Certainly not much like the drunken fop who had climbed into the carriage.

“What are you drawing?” Paris asks finally. All he can tell from the other side of the carriage is that it looks like a portrait of a young man. He isn’t exactly interested, but it’s something to talk about, and he’s going to have to get used to talking to Mercutio sooner or later.

“Friend from Verona,” Mercutio shrugs, turning the notebook for a moment so Paris can see the picture of a young man with short, spiky hair and a wide smile clearly.

“Is there much to do in Verona lately?” Paris presses on a moment too late to avoid the awkward silence settling in after Mercutio’s statement. It’s worse than if he’d just stayed quiet.

Mercutio looks him over for a moment. “Not much that would interest you, probably. Uncle had the theatre closed last year.” Paris waits in vain for him to elaborate; the Prince of Verona had never had anything against the arts that he knew of. “There are a lot of taverns, I guess.”

_I guess I did walk right into that one._

Paris decides to avoid making the atmosphere in the carriage even more uncomfortable by trying to keep the conversation—if it could be called that—going any further. He settles for gazing out the window instead, not that there’s much to look at besides the farmland and the dusty road.

Mercutio’s fidgeting grows more intense as the hours wear on, and by the time the carriage finally clatters through the gates of Verona Paris feels like he’ll go mad if he has to listen to him drumming his pen against the cover of the sketchbook for another minute.

His gaze drifts idly across the plaza until a patch of red catches his attention.

“Ow!” Mercutio yelps and swats at Paris’ hand with his notebook as Paris pokes at him blindly, still staring at the plaza. “What the hell?”

Paris bounds onto the bench next to Mercutio and shoves him over to the window. “Who is that?”

“What is _wrong_ with—who?”

“Him!” Paris points.

At the fountain in the center of the plaza, a young man is leaning lightly against his horse’s flank as it drinks, twirling a gold-hilted knife idly as he listens to one of the other youths clustered around him. He is dressed head to toe in red, with red cords braided into the brown curls falling past his shoulders. He looks like Achilles, or Alexander: a mythical hero brought to life. Paris can scarcely bear to look at him, and it isn’t just because of the noonday sun shining off the gold ornaments on his jacket.

“Oh, ew.” Mercutio makes a disgusted face—he doesn’t seem to understand how wondrous the sight is. “Tybalt.”

“Yes, yes, and?”

“Alright, get off me!” Paris retreats to his own bench and waits expectantly for Mercutio to continue. “That’s Tybalt Capulet.”

“Capulet…” Paris has heard the name, but can’t remember why.

“Yeah, he’s kind of their leader. He’s vicious. Nearly stabbed me last week.”

 _Beautiful_ and _intelligent!_ Paris thinks.

“Why do you care, anyway?”

“Oh, I don’t know…” Paris waves a hand vaguely as he turns away from Mercutio to focus his full attention on the young man at the fountain. _Tybalt..._ “Just curious.”

_Maybe Verona won’t be so boring after all._

* * *

Tybalt gestures towards the Prince’s carriage with the hilt of his knife as it passes slowly through the crowded plaza. “What’s that about?” He can see Mercutio at the window, and vaguely someone else sitting beside him.

“I heard our Prince,” Rosalina draws out the title mockingly, “has decided to fetch his heir back from university in Florence. What’s his name, Lodovico, Pallas?” She nudges the boy next to her with her boot.

“I think it’s Paris or something…”

 _Another annoyance like Mercutio to deal with._ “He’d best keep his neck out of our disputes or he’ll wish he had stayed in Florence.”


	2. Chapter 2

When the servants show him up to where he will be staying so he can unpack, Paris realizes that he has not only his own room, but an entire suite to himself, taking up most of the west wing of one of the palace’s upper floors. If he is careful about coming and going, he can most likely avoid encountering Mercutio for days at a time, if their uncle doesn’t get sudden ideas about family banquets. 

_And nearly enough closet space._

From a large balcony ornamented with hanging plants, he can see over the palace wall to most of the west side of the city; the Prince’s palace sits behind the central square and avenue bisecting Verona. In the distance he can see another large mansion, not to be compared to the palace but nothing to be ashamed of either. He can’t quite tell if it’s flying a red pennant from its highest tower, or if the sunset is playing tricks on him. 

_Maybe that’s where Tybalt lives,_ he thinks, leaning on the marble railing and resting his chin on his hands. He’s been involved with plenty of men in Florence, of course, but none that had struck him instantly the way Tybalt had at first sight. It’s rather a strange feeling, but one he’s willing to follow as far as it will take him.

A knock on the door distracts Paris from his daydreaming. “Come in!”

A servant opens the door and bows. “His Grace desires your presence, Count Paris.”

“Tell him I’ll be there shortly,” Paris replies. He definitely needs to change into something more presentable for the first encounter with his uncle. He had dutifully sent letters back to Verona every year, but these always contained only the mildest possible greetings and reports on his progress in university that were as boring as he could make them, with no details on what he was getting up to outside of his lectures.

The Prince is due for a shock. Paris hopes he can keep the explosion to a minimum.

* * *

To his great confusion, the Prince beams at him as he enters the office. “Ah! Paris, my boy, at last!”

Paris freezes for a moment, then remembers to bow. “Uncle.”

Mercutio rolls his eyes from the corner. As the conversation moves along, Paris gradually realizes that he has stumbled into a situation where, simply by virtue of not being Mercutio, he has become his uncle’s favorite ward.

Paris breathes an inward sigh of relief. ‘Not Mercutio’ is something he can manage. He had been afraid his uncle would have actual expectations.

“...show of stabilizing authority due to the situation,” the Prince is saying.

“Very wise,” Paris interjects smoothly, a skill developed over years of attending lectures while half-asleep or hungover. He ignores Mercutio’s disgusted snort.

“I’ll introduce you to the people officially after the fair tomorrow, if the Montagues and Capulets can behave themselves for that long.”

 _Capulets again._ “Why, what’s wrong with them?”

The Prince raises an eyebrow and Paris knows he’s made a miscalculation somewhere. “You have been gone a long time, haven’t you,” the Prince says finally.

Paris smiles and nods.

“The feud between the Montagues and Capulets—”

Paris finally remembers why he knew the name Capulet. “Oh god, not that silly thing? It’s still going?”

“It’s not—”

“Mercutio!” the Prince snaps. Mercutio shoves past Paris to leave the office, slamming the door behind him. The Prince looks at the door and sighs. “At the time you left Verona, their feud was at a low ebb, but recently it has been getting continually more violent. Mercutio deciding to take sides in it has only complicated things further. That’s one of the reasons I sent for you now, even though you were so close to finishing your law degree: my House must appear neutral in this matter.”

“Obviously,” Paris smiles. _Damn it, Tybalt! Why do you have to be a Capulet!_

“Thank god, someone who listens to reason at last,” the Prince murmurs.

“Sorry?”

“Nothing, nothing.” The Prince puts a hand on Paris’ shoulder. “You must be tired from the trip. I’ll give you some time to settle in and have my steward give you a report tomorrow with details on what has happened in Verona during your absence.”

“A wonderful idea, Uncle.” _Assigned reading? I’d rather die._ The one benefit of leaving Florence had been escape from nights spent poring over law books. Not, of course, that he had actually bothered to do this very often.

“I’m so glad to have someone here I can rely on, my boy. I’ll see you after the fair tomorrow.”

“I can hardly wait.” Paris bows and ducks out of the office, delighted to have survived this first trial.

* * *

“...cannot _believe_ Uncle actually bought into that act! He looks at that idiot like he’s going to be our town’s savior, or something!”

Paris’ suite is only lacking a pantry, and as he opens the door to the kitchen he realizes he’s made a grave miscalculation regarding his hopes of avoiding Mercutio.

His younger cousin is sitting on one of the large wooden tables with his back to the door, ranting to two other boys. One of them Paris recognizes from the sketch Mercutio had been working on during the carriage ride.

The one from the sketchbook coughs. “Mercutio…”

“I give it a month, tops, before he sees through all of it and realizes Paris is nothing but a damn drunken—”

_“Mercutio!”_

“Hi,” Paris says.

Mercutio yelps and flails. The one from the sketchbook catches him before he can fall off the table. “Paris!” Mercutio recovers enough to give a mockingly innocent smile as Paris walks over to the trio. “We were just talking about you.”

“Were you?” Paris dredges up another polite smile in return. “Are these your friends?” he asks as he piles some of the bread and smoked ham spread out on the table into a napkin.

“Uh.” Mercutio can’t seem to decide how to react. “Yeah, this is Benvolio…” the boy from the sketchbook raises a hand, his other arm still resting affectionately around Mercutio’s shoulders. “And that’s Romeo. Montague,” he adds significantly.

“Pleased to meet you!” Romeo chirps, apparently completely unaware of the tone of the conversation.

“Pleasure.” Paris wanders over to the door of the wine cellar and tugs at the latch. “Damn.” _This would only slow me down for a few minutes if there weren’t witnesses..._

“The steward keeps it locked,” Mercutio calls. Paris can just hear him whispering something else to Benvolio, and they both laugh. Romeo makes a confused noise.

Paris decides he’s suffered his cousin’s presence long enough and retreats with the food. Just before he closes the door, he thinks of something else and leans back into the kitchen. “So. Mercutio. When you said Tybalt tried to stab you, you mean like, for real, like, with a knife.”

“Uh...yeeeees?”

“Huh. Neat.”

“That was weird,” Benvolio says as Paris shuts the door.

“Forget him, have you heard about the masquerade…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No geography of medieval Italian cities was harmed in the making of this fanfic. (I'm basing all of the Verona setting on the stage blocking of the musical.)


	3. Chapter 3

Tybalt ignores the murmur of his aunt and uncle’s conversation as he trails behind them through the market stalls of Verona’s first fair of the summer. Despite the music, bright tents, and exotic wares, the event holds little interest for him. He wishes Juliet could be there, but she was ordered to stay home—Tybalt heard her arguing with her parents over it last night. 

Lord and Lady Capulet rarely agree on anything, but where Juliet is concerned they are a united front. Lord Capulet wants her well away from the gaze of any of the young Montagues, and Lady Capulet fears that a sunburn might damage her complexion and her chances for a good marriage (a ridiculous concern, in Tybalt’s opinion).

Thus, Tybalt finds himself at the fair, reluctantly wearing his best clothes (at his aunt’s insistence) despite the heat, with nothing to do but follow his guardians and hope that one of the Montagues decides to start something so he could work off some of the frustration.

From what he can tell from a brief glance across the city square, nearly a third of the people attending the fair are wearing either Capulet or Montague colors—probably half of the Verona citizens, considering the number of visitors from outside the city the fairs always attract. It’s more difficult to tell which family has more supporters in the square, but Tybalt is sure that even if outnumbered the Capulets would easily be able to win out.

“...connections in Padua,” says Lady Capulet. “Perhaps a good match could be found for our Juliet there.”

Tybalt begins actually listening. He knows the need to find a profitable match for Juliet has been becoming pressing, but they couldn’t possibly be considering marrying her off outside the city?

“What of the Prince’s nephew Paris? He has already gained a huge inheritance through his parents, and stands to come into more wealth after his uncle dies. If we could entice him to be interested in Juliet our House will have nothing to worry about.”

 _Paris again._ If he’s anything like his cousin Mercutio, Juliet might be better off in Padua, little as Tybalt can stand the thought of losing the only confidant he has in his uncle’s mansion. _Where is Mercutio, anyway?_ Tybalt searches through the nearest rows of stalls for the Prince’s insufferable nephew, sure he must be somewhere nearby as always. 

A young man Tybalt has never seen before looks his way from the florist tent the Capulets have paused next to. He is wearing white and gold, not colors from either House, so Tybalt sorts him into the category of unaffiliated Verona citizens who barely exist to him and continues looking around for Mercutio.

Just as he expects, Mercutio is at a sweets stand only a few tents away. _Is he too stupid to know better than to bother me, or does he want to get himself stabbed? It’s not as if he can hide with that hair._ Mercutio’s constant companion Benvolio, the only intelligent Montague Tybalt has ever encountered, quickly attempts to lead him away before he can notice that Tybalt has spotted him.

 _Too late, Montague._ “Mercutio!”

Mercutio yanks his arm out of Benvolio’s grip and whirls around to make a mocking bow. “Tybalt! I didn’t think you’d dare to show your face.” Other shoppers quickly begin vacating the space surrounding them as they realize what is about to happen.

“I see you’re still too afraid to come near me without your guard dog.” Tybalt smirks, resting a hand on his knife.

“We’re really doing this, huh,” Benvolio sighs, trying again to pull Mercutio away. 

“Let go, damn it!” Mercutio shoves Benvolio aside and throws the closest pastry.

Everything freezes for a moment. Tybalt blinks as he looks at the puff of powdered sugar the fried cake has left on his jacket.

Then he shrugs and lunges at Mercutio.

“Every _damn_ time!” Benvolio shouts.

The young man in the florist tent chooses this exact moment to step out in front of him, holding a bouquet of roses. Tybalt grabs him by the arm and throws him aside with a snarl before leaping on Mercutio.

* * *

Paris lays on the warm pavement, surrounded by roses, and watches Tybalt Capulet’s back as he attempts to strangle his cousin.

It is a _wonderful_ view. 

Paris wishes some of his artist friends from Florence could see it; it nearly makes up for Mercutio spoiling his attempt to introduce himself.

Benvolio soon manages to shove Tybalt and Mercutio apart, spoiling Paris’ hopes for a peaceful home life (not that he would ever actually want him dead, not really, but Mercutio has grown into the most insufferable person Paris has ever encountered).

Just as Tybalt kicks Benvolio into the table of pastries and turns on Mercutio again, someone grabs Paris’ arm and he turns to see one of the Prince’s guards. “Quickly, Count Paris, this way.”

Snatching up one of the scattered roses as he stands, Paris sighs and lets the guard usher him away. The fighting has spread through the entire square by the time the guard escorts him up the steps to join the Prince on the raised porch in front of the palace.

“...Is this why the theatre was closed?”

The Prince nods, still glaring out over the chaos in the square.

Paris sighs and half-sits on the porch railing, twirling the rose absently as he searches the crowd for Tybalt. _How am I supposed to have a social life with all this going on?_

Tybalt is still wrestling with Mercutio and Benvolio. At some point he must have been shoved to the ground to land in the roses, as a few red and pink petals cling to his hair.

His gaze fixed on Tybalt, Paris dreamily puts the rose stem in his mouth and bites down on it. “Ow.”

“Enough!” the Prince roars.

* * *

Tybalt releases Mercutio’s jacket and backs away as the Prince’s guards flood the square to separate the two Houses. Mercutio points at his hair and laughs as Benvolio pulls him to the Montague side. _What’s that about?_ Tybalt wonders as the Prince begins to speak.

Everyone in Verona has heard these lectures before, so there’s no real need to pay attention, but everyone also knows that if the Prince doesn’t think the citizens are listening he’ll only go on longer, so they all stand patiently and wait for him to get tired of talking.

“...my heir, Count Paris, back from Florence, and this is his introduction to our city?”

This attracts Tybalt’s attention and he looks up at the palace porch to see the young man from the flower stand make a slight bow from his perch on the railing.

 _Good god, they want to marry Juliet to_ that? _What a ridiculous little fop._

Paris salutes the crowd with a pink rose and beams. _Idiot._ He is dressed all in white silk and gold jewelry, and with the sun shining through his blond hair he looks like a prince from one of Juliet’s fairytale books. _What sort of place does he think this is? He wouldn’t survive ten minutes in Verona without his uncle’s guards._

“Um, Tybalt…” Rosalina tugs at his jacket sleeve until he turns to look at her. “You, uh, you have…” She brushes a hand over her hair.

“What—” Tybalt raises a hand to his hair and comes back with a red rose petal. He drops it in disgust, tossing his head to shake the rest loose.

* * *

“...do not intend to overlook this futile violence any longer! The next person found responsible for any bloodshed in this feud will go to the gallows—yes, even you, Mercutio!” the Prince shouts over his nephew’s shrill laugh. “My patience has been tried long enough. Lord Capulet! Lord Montague! Get your Houses under control before our fair city is torn apart!”

“That’s a bit harsh, isn’t it?” Paris asks, watching the square slowly clear for a moment before he follows his uncle inside. “Even Mercutio?”

“They’ll never listen otherwise—you’ll understand when it comes to be your turn to deal with them.” The Prince pauses in the doorway. “I know I can trust you to know better than to involve yourself in that madness.”

Paris turns back enough to glimpse Tybalt in the crowd, flipping off Mercutio. “You know me, Uncle.” The red streaks in Tybalt’s hair glitter in the sun as he laughs. “I would _never._ ”


	4. Chapter 4

The next morning, Paris puts on his finest clothes (as well as around two dozen accessories), spends three hours fixing his hair, and heads into the Capulet side of the city, stopping to buy another bouquet of roses before asking directions to Lord Capulet’s mansion.

After the disaster at the fair yesterday, Paris has come to the conclusion that if he wants to have a proper chance with Tybalt, he needs to get to him without any Montagues about, and especially without Mercutio turning up anywhere nearby to cause a distraction by virtue of being eminently stabbable.

This is what leads to him turning up at the Capulet estate, using the conversation he had overheard from the flower stand to get himself through the gates.

He doesn’t even have to lie, not really. After Lord Capulet’s effusive greeting in the courtyard, all Paris has to do is mention he’s heard the man has a daughter—a perfectly true statement—and he takes this to the desired conclusion.

“So honored...we could never have dreamed of such a wonderful match for the heir to our House…”

Paris tunes him out as Tybalt walks down the steps. _Finally!_ He wishes he could run over at once, but Lord Capulet is still talking.

“Uncle, what…”

Lord Capulet mutters something under his breath that Paris doesn’t catch. “Ah, Count Paris, this is Juliet’s cousin, Tybalt.”

“Tybalt…” Paris pulls his arm out of Lord Capulet’s grip and runs over to extend a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you since arriving in the city.” 

He waits expectantly as Tybalt slowly looks him over with large, bright brown eyes, then yelps in surprise as Tybalt slaps his hand away and turns his back.

“Tybalt!” Lord Capulet rushes over immediately to pull Paris away and hiss something to Tybalt about _can’t you control yourself for once do you want to ruin us?_ “Don’t trouble yourself about him, Count Paris.”

_A bit late for that._

“...such happy news, I know, you simply must come to our masquerade ball tomorrow! You can dance with Juliet and we’ll make the announcement to all the guests afterwards. Wait here for one moment, I must tell the steward to make changes to the preparations…”

He runs back inside, making a shooing gesture at Tybalt as he passes.

_Finally he leaves us alone!_ Paris hurries back to where Tybalt is standing just as Tybalt turns around. “Hi,” Paris says, smiling up at him.

“Oh god!” 

Tybalt jumps back. Paris follows.

* * *

“I saw you at the fair, but, well, I didn’t really get a chance to talk to you.” Paris shifts the bouquet of roses he’s holding as if that means something. A jeweled pin in his golden hair catches the light as he tilts his head and smiles.

Tybalt decides that Paris is even madder than his cousin Mercutio. There’s no other explanation for his deliberately approaching the most dangerous of the Capulet warriors.

Still, at least Paris has given him the opportunity to scare him away from Juliet before it’s too late. Tybalt starts to take a step forward, reaching for Paris’ ruffled silk shirt. _How dare he come in here with his stupid pretty clothes and those damn roses again...who does he think he is?_

“Tybalt!”

_Damn! Too late._ Tybalt turns away with a growl as his uncle opens the door again.

* * *

After several more minutes of listening to Lord Capulet ramble while trying to catch Tybalt’s attention every moment his uncle isn’t looking, Paris realizes he may have made a serious miscalculation.

In Florence, nearly any young man would have guessed what the score was at this point, even if his interests didn’t happen to go that way. Indeed, Paris has used the excuse of convenient sisters and cousins and aunts many times to gain access to usually closed estates, although admittedly in most of those situations the arrangements had already been made before he turned up on the doorstep.

Tybalt just doesn’t seem to understand how things are done. _As handsome as that and I’m the first man who’s tried to flirt with him?_ Paris can hardly believe it. Still, this does complicate things a bit, and he’s still no closer to an opportunity to actually talk to him. The only response he’s received so far is a few furious glares. 

_He must think I’m actually interested in Juliet, and that’s offended him somehow…_ Paris hadn’t even considered that possibility, but he can see how a sudden perceived interest in a much younger girl he’s never even met might come as a shock to a protective relation. Even more so if it comes from someone of Paris’ reputation. _I’ll just have to explain things at the masquerade,_ he decides as he bows to Lord Capulet and turns to leave with a last glance back at Tybalt.

Tybalt smirks and draws a finger across his throat. 

_I’m sure I can clear this up and then everything will be just fine!_


	5. Chapter 5

Paris rests his forehead on the stained table with a groan, kicking petulantly at the brick floor of the bar. _I hate this stupid town!_

He can’t deny the fact that he also had a hand in ruining everything, which just makes it worse. _And I thought things had been going so well, too…_

Someone coughs quietly next to his table. “Um...do you want another, sir?” a barmaid says as he looks up, pointing at the wine cup. She doesn’t recognize him with the mask, thankfully—he’s entirely sick of Count Paris tonight, as is most of Verona, he is sure.

Paris tosses her a few gold coins, not even bothering to look at the amount. “Just bring me the whole bottle. Two or three, actually.”

_If I’m lucky, I can forget everything that happened at the masquerade, and tomorrow I’ll beg Uncle to let me go back to Florence._

* * *

The day of the masquerade, the Prince summons Paris to his office and traps him there for several hours with a discussion of Verona’s trade prospects for the next several years. By the time Paris escapes, he barely has time to get ready.

Mercutio and his Montague friends are clustered on the stairs when Paris rushes up to his suite. “I don’t know about this…” Romeo is saying as Paris brushes past them.

“Don’t be a child, Romeo!” Mercutio laughs. “It’ll be fun, come on!”

 _Do I want to know what Mercutio is up to...no,_ Paris thinks as he flings open one of the wardrobes. _I’m going to go enjoy myself and there’s nothing he can do about it this time._

Lord Capulet is already waiting for him when he arrives at the mansion. “Count Paris! Wonderful to see you, my boy!”

“Lord Capulet!” Paris shoves down the irritation at being called ‘my boy’ and smiles. “It felt like today took forever!” _It didn’t help that Uncle read over the trade agreement with Modena seven times._

Lord Capulet hands him a mask trimmed with yellow and white feathers and takes his arm. “Come inside, my boy, and you can have your first look at Juliet!”

“Nothing would delight me more!” _Except another look at Tybalt…_

Paris knows he can’t be called an expert when it comes to this sort of thing, but Lord Capulet’s daughter Juliet looks like a perfectly nice girl, with an intelligent gaze and a bright smile. _Definitely nothing like her father,_ Paris thinks as he slips away from Lord Capulet’s grip and heads out onto the dance floor in search of Tybalt. He’s easy to spot even in a mask and wearing the same white as all of the other guests, with his height and his distinctive hair.

As he tries to catch up to Tybalt, Paris trips over one of the other masked guests, who stumbles and falls. “Sorry!” Paris says quickly as he dodges other dancers.

“Romeo!” he hears a familiar voice whisper behind him. “Romeo, your mask!”

 _For the love of San Giovanni, must he follow me everywhere?_ Paris thinks about turning and confronting his cousin, but realizes this would only spoil his chances—if Tybalt realizes Mercutio is there a fight is sure to break out immediately and then Paris’ whole scheme will go to waste. _Where did Tybalt go, anyway?_

Paris finally makes it off the dance floor and takes a wine cup from a maid as he looks around. Noticing movement in a nearby alcove, he glances over just in time to see Tybalt push away his aunt’s clinging hands and duck out back towards the dance floor.

 _No wonder he’s confused about romance with a family like this!_ Paris realizes, looking down into the wine so Tybalt’s aunt doesn’t discover she isn’t the only one staring after her nephew. By the time he thinks it’s safe, Tybalt is on the other side of the dance floor again.

As he watches Tybalt push a young man wearing a blue mask away from Juliet, Paris has a brilliant idea. _I haven’t been getting anywhere chasing after him, so I’ll just make him come after me!_

“Julieeeeet!”

Paris is still several yards away from Juliet when Tybalt catches him around the waist and whirls him around. “Tybalt!” Paris gasps, hooking a leg around his as Tybalt dips him. _Now we’re getting somewhere!_ he thinks, even though Tybalt drops him a moment later to stalk off with a huff.

_I just have to keep trying..._

* * *

After the third time he has to spin Count Paris away from Juliet, Tybalt is starting to get fed up. _Does he not realize what’s going on here?_ The entire Escalus family is certainly completely mad. Mercutio and his Montague friends are also doing their best to make a mess of the party, and every time Tybalt tries to go after them he ends up having to turn back to chase Paris off again. _Maybe I need to make things more clear._

The next time he has to haul Paris away, Tybalt shoves him off the dance floor and drags him into a shadowed alcove behind a column. If his uncle finds out he’s trying to break up Juliet’s marriage he’ll be in a rage for weeks, but he isn’t about to stand aside and let this farce go on any longer.

Paris’ hands twine into the fringe of Tybalt’s jacket as he pushes him against the wall. “Tybalt! Tybalt, I—”

Tybalt puts a hand over his mouth to shut him up and slips his other hand through the lace ruffles of Paris’ shirt to rest lightly against his neck.

Paris’ grey eyes go wide, but there is no fear in them. Perhaps he still thinks his identity as the Prince’s heir makes him invulnerable, or perhaps he still thinks Verona is like Florence. 

_I’ll soon put a stop to that,_ Tybalt thinks, leaning in to growl through Paris’ lavender-scented hair. “If you ever dare to come near Juliet again I will kill you.”

He can feel Paris’ pulse begin to race underneath his fingers, and he makes a soft whine against Tybalt’s hand. _That’s better._

After a few more moments, Tybalt decides Paris is sufficiently terrorized and releases him, drawing his thumbnail lightly across his neck as he takes his hand away. _Now to deal with the rest of them,_ he thinks as he turns back towards the dance floor, searching for Mercutio.

* * *

Paris stumbles out of the alcove and practically melts against the column with a sigh as he watches Tybalt stalk away across the dance floor.

_Okay, pros...that was the hottest thing that’s ever happened to me in my entire life. Cons...I think maybe he actually means it._

He leans his head back against the column and closes his eyes. _I thought I was so close, too! But I had to go and be so clever and ruin everything...at least I know when I’m not wanted._

He throws the mask into a bed of roses as he slips out of the party.

After that, there’s nothing to do but go back to the palace and scream into a pillow, but this proves boring after about ten minutes, and he doesn’t want to be there when Mercutio and his friends return from their escapade at the party, either.

But the idea of keeping up appearances as Count Paris for the rest of the night is exhausting.

As Paris raises his head from the pillow, he notices something glittering in the corner of his eye, and turns to see a silver mask sitting in a heap of accessories that he’d flung onto a chair while getting ready for the party.

 _I forgot I still had that,_ he thinks as he walks over to pick it up. One of his artist friends in Florence had made it for him years ago to wear as the model for a painting. The half-mask is in the form of a sharp fox face, etched with twining vines. _At the party, everyone knew who I was and what mask I was wearing before I even got there, so there was no point trying to hide...but with this…_

At least he can drink the humiliation of the day away in peace. By itself, the mask might not have been enough, but with his hair pulled straight back and left tied in a long ponytail, and a simple white suit, he looks nothing like the gaudy noble who arrived in Verona two days before.

He’s starting on the second bottle when the door opens. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> San Giovanni/St. John the Baptist is the patron saint of Florence.


	6. Chapter 6

Tybalt sighs in relief as he finally manages to slip away from the Capulet grounds. _I thought I’d never escape!_

His uncle had correctly assumed that, even though nobody had seen what happened just before Paris vanished, Tybalt must have had something to do with it—Tybalt’s report of the Montague infiltrators had only been a temporary shield against his anger.

After the last of the guests had left, Lord Capulet was finally distracted by an argument with his wife long enough for Tybalt to get away. Juliet has already fled to her room long before. Tybalt considers going to her, but she’s put up with enough tonight after being harassed by Paris and the Montagues through the whole party. She doesn’t need to deal with his problems as well. 

Instead, he heads into the city to find something to drink.

And, if things decide to go his way for once, maybe a bar fight.

The White Fox Tavern sits near the far edge of what has come to be the Capulet sector of Verona, a few streets away from the neutral central road leading to the Prince’s palace. Once a comfortable, welcoming place for departing theatre audiences and travelers, it is currently a rundown, struggling hotspot for young members of both Houses looking for trouble.

Several young men wearing Montague colors turn to look as he opens the door. Tybalt smirks, walking over to put his back against the bar. _Thank god, I can finally forget that idiot._ “Shall we get things started?”

* * *

Things are well underway when Tybalt realizes there is someone sitting on the bar next to him. He shoves one of the Montagues away and turns to face this new attacker, then pauses in surprise as he finds a cup of wine pressed into his hand. A bottle taps against it and he follows it up to see a young man in white throw his head back to drink.

Tybalt looks down at the wine suspiciously then shrugs and downs it, kicking another Montague away from the bar.

“Wow,” the man in white laughs, draping himself across the bar to lean against Tybalt’s shoulder. Tybalt starts to shrug him off, then stops as he reaches over to refill the wine cup. _I’d be a fool to turn down free wine after a day like this._ “Come here often?” the man slurs in a vague foreign accent, smirking beneath the sharp lines of the silver mask.

“I…” Tybalt shoves another Montague, holding the wine cup carefully out of the way. “Yeah, I live here…”

The man bursts out laughing at that, sitting up to take another drink and making an annoyed noise as he upends the bottle fruitlessly. A chair hurtles through the air and Tybalt vaults the bar, yanking the man in white with him as it flies through where he had been sitting to smash a shelf of bottles on the wall.

The man in white is still laughing as they land tangled together behind the bar, his long pale hair spilling over Tybalt’s face.

“Come out and fight, Tybalt!” one of the Montagues shouts.

“Tyballlllllt…”

Tybalt pulls his sleeve out of the man’s grip and replaces it with another bottle of wine. “Stay,” he orders before climbing back over the bar. Three of the Montagues immediately tackle him, and just as he breaks free of them he feels fingers on his sleeve again. Whirling around, he stops his punch almost too late as he sees the silver mask and the smile under it. “I told you to stay!” he hisses as he elbows a Montague coming up behind him.

“But that’s no fuuuuuuun!” the man in white whines, gesturing with the bottle.

Tybalt snatches it away from him and lifts him around the waist to set him on the bar where he’ll be at least slightly out of the way. “Do _not_ move.” He isn’t expecting him to actually stay put, but he was hoping this would last more than ten seconds. “For heaven’s sake, stop getting in the way!” he sighs as the man in white immediately jumps down and throws his arms around his neck.

By this point, the Montagues can’t help but notice the newcomer as well, and pause in confusion. “Friend of yours?” one of them asks.

“I’ve never seen this man before in my life,” Tybalt says, although he knows he isn’t making the statement very believable by the way he’s letting the man in white cling on to him. 

Just then, Benvolio and Mercutio enter the bar. Their little friend Romeo is missing— _must be past his bedtime,_ Tybalt thinks. “Is this yours?” he demands as they join the group of Montagues, giving the man in white a little push forward. He makes a playful salute and laughs, Tybalt catching him as he stumbles and nearly falls.

Benvolio shrugs. “Never seen him before,” Mercutio says.

The man in white pulls against Tybalt’s grip, leaning towards the bar to grab a bottle. “ _Stop_ that!” Tybalt yanks him back, then sighs and pulls him out of the bar, brushing past Benvolio and Mercutio. “Better get you out of here before one of them decides you’re someone worth stabbing.” _I can always go back and finish the fight later._

“You do care!” the man in white laughs. He seems to have sobered up a little in the cool night air, but the heavy accent remains and Tybalt finds himself focusing on it.

“I just don’t feel like dragging a corpse out of my favorite bar,” Tybalt retorts, leading him towards the edge of Capulet territory.

Now that it’s only the two of them, he can get a proper look at the stranger. The man in white is of approximately similar build to Count Paris, but dressed in a simple white tunic and trousers, the mask his only piece of ornamentation besides the blond ponytail falling nearly to his waist. The impression his costume leaves is austere and striking, nothing like Paris’ gaudy fluff. His personality certainly doesn’t match his looks, but Tybalt finds himself more amused than angry at the teasing flirting. 

“Have you got a name?” Tybalt asks after another minute of walking in silence.

The man in white looks up at him. “Ah. Volpe,” he says, tilting his head to one side with a surprisingly shy smile considering how bold he had been in the bar.

“And where did you spring from?”

“Pisa…”

“I see.” That explains the accent, at least. “And does Volpe-from-Pisa have anywhere to stay in Verona?”

“...could take me home?”

Tybalt can’t help but laugh at that. “You are _ridiculous,_ ” he says, shoving Volpe playfully. “I have too many cats already, I’m not taking home a fox as well. Now where do you belong?” 

Volpe waves vaguely in the direction of the city center. _Very helpful._

“Alright, I’ll take you as far as the center road,” Tybalt says. “After that you’ll have to find your own way.”

“‘kay…” Volpe yawns, resting his head on Tybalt’s shoulder. One of his hands slides down Tybalt’s sleeve, and Tybalt starts as he finds himself holding a small, warm hand. Volpe blinks up at him innocently. “Too much?”

Tybalt pulls his hand away. “Are you going to be in Verona long?” he asks to distract him.

“I could be.”

“What kind of an answer is...here we are,” Tybalt says as they reach the edge of the broad avenue separating the two halves of the city. “Now run along home before one of the Montagues spots you.”

* * *

Paris blinks awake, holding a hand up as sunlight shines into his eyes through the curtains. _God, now I’m even dreaming about him,_ he thinks with a bitter laugh as he sits up. _I’ve got to get out of Verona._

The light glints off a silver mask sitting on his pillow.

_Wait._

_I think that actually happened._


	7. Chapter 7

Paris can't entirely remember what happened last night before he scrambled through the palace window and collapsed in his bed, but the wine stains are still on his white suit from when he fell off the bar, and he imagines he can still feel the warmth of Tybalt’s hand around his.

He wanders through the rest of the morning in a dreamy haze, not even bothering to protest when he's summoned to luncheon with the Prince and Mercutio. He regrets this almost as soon as he sits down.

“I have heard,” the Prince says as the servants remove the dishes from the first course, “that you and some of your Montague friends caused a disturbance at the Capulet estate last night, Mercutio.”

Mercutio scowls. “We were only having a little fun,” he says. “Not like you'd ever understand that,” he adds under his breath.

“You cannot continue with this kind of behavior!” the Prince shouts. Paris hides in his wine cup and prays for the next course to arrive soon. “Can't you see what you're doing? You'll drive the entire city into war, and yourself into a noose if you don't learn to control yourself!”

Mercutio laughs. “Do you even hear yourself? What do you think this is, Orestes? Nobody got hurt!”

“And what about the next time?”

“Everything's going to be fine! What about Paris? He was there too, why isn't he in trouble?”

Paris chokes a little on the wine and sets the cup down as he feels his uncle's gaze settle on him. Mercutio smirks across the table and flips him off from behind the salt dish.

“Lord Capulet invited me,” Paris protests. “I wanted to meet Juliet.” _Hopefully Mercutio was too occupied with his own troublemaking to actually notice what I was doing at the party._

“See, Mercutio?” the Prince smiles approvingly. “If you can manage to behave yourself you might actually get invited to parties. You should learn from your cousin.”

Mercutio makes a gagging noise.

_Holy Mother of God save me._ Paris buries his face in his hands, only the thought of slipping out to find Tybalt later keeping him from praying for death.

It feels like days before the Prince seems satisfied with his lecture. Paris flees for his suite at once, but Mercutio is faster, sprinting up the stairs to block the door before Paris can reach it.

“Let me through!”

“Don’t think I don’t see what’s going on here.” Mercutio glares up at him.

“W-what?” _Damn it, if he tells Uncle about seeing me at the bar with Tybalt I’ll never be allowed out of the palace again!_

“You have Uncle thinking you’re so damn _perfect_ , but we both know it’s all just an act. Just wait, I’m going to prove it to him and then you’ll be shipped away from Verona for good!”

Before Paris can reply, Mercutio shoves him aside roughly and races back down the stairs.

“Where are you going?” the Prince calls from his office as Mercutio passes.

“Out!”

“With whom?”

“The Montagues!” Mercutio yells. “They’re the only ones who care about me in this whole damn town!”

Paris winces as the palace doors slam shut behind Mercutio. He can’t help but feel relieved he’s gone, but he’s starting to see why his cousin acts the way he does. He remembers the atmosphere in the palace being smothering during the several months he spent there between the deaths of his parents and being sent to school in Florence. With the political tensions currently it must have been unbearable even before Paris arrived to give Mercutio someone to be unjustly compared to.

When he enters his bedroom, Paris finds that the servants have cleaned the suit from last night and left it on the bed. _I’ll have to hide it next time,_ he realizes as he starts to change. Mercutio is sure to keep a close eye on him from now on, and even if he didn’t recognize him last night, Paris knows he can’t take any chances. His younger cousin is headstrong and hot-tempered, but by no means stupid, and if Paris is able to climb up to the balcony to get in to his suite, Mercutio could likely do the same easily.

After brushing his hair out and tying it back, Paris fishes through his caskets of accessories. _Things went well enough last night, but it would be silly to follow Tybalt into fights completely unprotected._ Within a few minutes, he finds a simple silver gorget necklace and a plate and mail glove that can be easily repurposed for more practical uses. _Like climbing up to Tybalt’s balcony…_

Perching on the balcony railing, Paris ties the velvet ribbons of the mask and sits there for a moment, gazing over at the Capulet tower. Then he drops onto a branch of the tree overhanging the palace wall and slips into the city.


	8. Chapter 8

The next couple of days pass in a delighted whirlwind—Paris hasn’t enjoyed himself this much in years. While Count Paris is a convenient person to be a lot of the time, his station, political position, and family situation mean that his existence has to be performed carefully. Volpe has no such concerns.

Tybalt seems confused at being followed around, but also intrigued that someone wants his company for reasons that don’t have anything to do with the name of Capulet. Even the Montagues seem more curious than hostile, especially after Paris breaks up a mounting argument between Rosalina and a much younger Montague boy.

He’s surprised, yet pleased, that nobody has actually pulled a knife on him yet from either side. The Tuscan accent he had been working to suppress as Count Paris has actually been proving useful. While the young people of both Houses are full of intense, if rather vague, animosity towards each other, both groups seem to have an understanding that an obvious foreigner who refuses to wear colors of either House is a different matter.

The greatest surprise is that Mercutio seems to like Volpe. Paris had been resigned to his cousin hating him in two identities now, but instead he finds himself sitting at the edge of a roof trading drinks from a bottle of mead, watching the sunset and making sympathetic noises as he listens to Mercutio complain about him. 

“...not like my uncle was thrilled to have me around even before Paris turned up, but now...I feel like he’s wishing I’ll give him an excuse to get rid of me.” Mercutio throws a chip of roof tile at the fountain in the plaza below, but it bounces off the stone edge.

“Let me try.” Mercutio tosses him another warm piece of the roof tile and Paris hurls it at the fountain, smiling ruefully as it lands several feet short. “Anyway,” Paris says, “I’m sure your uncle doesn’t actually want to get rid of you.”

“I wish.” Mercutio sighs and lays back on the roof, staring up at the clouds. “He hates me. I wish the fairies would come and take me away.”

Paris laughs. “As solutions go, I wouldn’t recommend starting with that one.” Mercutio smiles a little at that. “I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll run into you tomorrow.”

Mercutio waves lazily as Paris jumps to the next roof. 

Paris has never been so grateful for that few weeks’ fling he had with a travelling acrobat performing in Florence a few years before; he’d never suspected the skills gained from running around over the rooftops would come in handy again, but they’re invaluable for Volpe. (The other rooftop activities are also still a fond memory.)

Volpe is much more active than Count Paris, and as he climbs back in through the balcony Paris realizes he’s starving. Since he knows Mercutio is still out, Paris doesn’t bother changing out of Volpe’s suit entirely, and just throws a long vest and scarf over it before rushing down the stairs to the kitchen, tugging the mask off as he goes.

“Ah! Paris, there you are.”

Paris quickly tucks the mask under his scarf and turns around to bow to the Prince as he steps out of his office. “Do you need me for something, Uncle?” 

“No, no, just...promise that you will be careful if you go out into the city. I’ve received word that one of the Houses has hired a foreign mercenary to get around the ban on violence, and I fear you could be targeted if you are out alone.”

“A foreign mercenary?” Paris feels sure Tybalt, Benvolio or Mercutio would have mentioned this at some point if it were actually the case.

“Yes—a young man named Volpe, wearing a silver mask.”

Paris turns to cough into his scarf and press the mask into a more secure position inside his shirt. “You don’t say.”

“I don’t even know which House contracted him, so there’s no way to predict what he might do...until something’s done about him, perhaps I should have you escorted by some of my guards when you want to go out.”

“Oh, Uncle, you shouldn’t worry so much!” Paris hopes his laugh doesn’t sound like he’s panicking. “I’m sure he’s nothing to be concerned about. Besides, how am I to convince the people of Verona that I’m a worthy successor to you if I don’t even dare to appear in the city without being surrounded by guards?” 

The Prince sighs. “You’re correct, of course. Just promise that you will be careful.”

“Of course, Uncle.” _The only danger Volpe has for me is if he slips and falls off a roof._

* * *

The next day is pouring rain, a hot summer thunderstorm. Mercutio is in an ill temper at being trapped inside, which rapidly provokes the Prince in turn, so Paris keeps to his suite apart from a necessary expedition to obtain food from the kitchen. (This time there are no witnesses, so he takes the opportunity to pick the lock of the wine cellar as well.)

The rain finally stops in the early afternoon. As the first rays of sun emerge, Paris tosses aside the illuminated book of poetry he was reading with a sigh of relief. _I thought I wouldn’t get a chance to talk to Tybalt at all today!_

After a quick look across the hall to check that Mercutio is sulking in his room with the door shut, Paris rushes to change into Volpe’s suit, then jumps from the balcony railing to the palace wall.

The tiled roofs are slippery with the rain, and after a few near-falls on his way to the fountain plaza Paris is ready to give up on that mode of travel until things dry out. Just as he pauses next to a statue of Melpomene on the roof of the closed theatre, he realizes he’s being watched: two of the Prince’s guards are standing across the street, and one of them points his direction.

Paris had nearly forgotten the conversation with his uncle yesterday, but apparently the Prince had meant his words when he said he wanted to ‘do something’ about Volpe. As the guards cross the street, Paris races along the ledge of statues and drops into the alley behind the theatre, sprinting into the Capulet sector.

* * *

Tybalt had been hoping to go into the city once the rain stopped, in order to see if Volpe was about, but as he tries to slip out of the house he is cornered and lectured by his uncle and, after he finally thought he saw a glimpse of freedom, again by his aunt. By the time he escapes nearly an hour later, it’s already raining again, so there’s nothing to do but retreat back to his room in the tower.

He drops onto his bed with a sigh, smiling slightly as one of the cats meows in protest at being disturbed. “I know, I know, Isotta, but I do live here too,” he says, reaching out to scratch her behind the ears. _Everyone wants to scold me today, apparently..._

After a few minutes, he realizes it’s not just the rain he hears tapping against the shuttered windows opening on his balcony. Making sure he gets up carefully enough not to disturb Isotta, he strides across the room and flings the shutters open.

“...Volpe?”

Volpe stops tapping on the window with the silver glove. “ _Let me in,_ ” he mouths. He is crouching on the balcony in the meager shelter of the railing, water trickling along the etchings of the mask and stray locks of blond hair sticking to his face.

Tybalt opens the window.


	9. Chapter 9

Tybalt stares at him blankly, and Paris briefly expects him to just turn away again before he reaches for the latch and pulls the window open. “What are you doing here?” Tybalt hisses as Paris steps inside.

The rain and wind are colder now, and Paris shivers a little in Volpe’s thin linen suit. “S-sorry,” he says as Tybalt closes the window behind him and checks that the bedroom door is locked. No doubt Tybalt’s uncle would be less than happy if he knew what was going on—Paris didn’t mean to put Tybalt in a position like this, even if being in Tybalt’s room was something he had only been able to dream of before. “The Prince had his guards out chasing me,” he explains. “I couldn’t lose them until I climbed over your wall. They’re probably still waiting for me.”

Tybalt’s eyebrows go up. “Why the devil would he go to all that trouble over one traveller?” He turns to rummage in a wardrobe.

“He thinks I’m an assassin hired by one of your Houses.”

Tybalt snorts. It’s only slightly muffled by the clothes. “What, you?”

“Hey!” Paris protests. “I’m not exactly helpless.”

“You won’t even carry a knife.” Tybalt emerges with a scarlet cloak draped over his arm. “How does he think you’re going to assassinate anybody, flirt them to death?”

Paris laughs thinly, waiting for Tybalt to ask the inevitable question. He doesn’t. “Do you...want to know who I am?”

“Are you a spy for the Montagues?”

“I think I’d know if I was,” Paris says.

“Then I don’t see how it would make a difference.”

Tybalt steps forward to throw the cloak around Paris. They stand there for a few breaths, Tybalt still gripping the edges of the warm wool that holds Paris close.

Paris stretches up to kiss him softly, closing his eyes behind the mask. Tybalt freezes as Paris rests a hand on his chest to keep his balance.

_Oh god, I’ve ruined everything again, haven’t I,_ Paris thinks in a panic, not daring to open his eyes to see how Tybalt is reacting. Before he can think of what to do he has to abruptly turn away to sneeze. Tybalt laughs a little, and he doesn’t look angry when Paris turns back to face him, although he takes a step back, letting go of the cloak. 

“Well.” Tybalt’s face blanks for a moment before he continues. “You can at least...wait here until you dry off.” He gestures towards the bed. Paris looks at it. Tybalt watches him. “Oh. I mean. I don't have any chairs in here.” 

He backs towards the bedroom door and for a moment Paris thinks Tybalt has changed his mind and is about to have him thrown out. “Peter!” Tybalt shouts down the stairs, leaning through the doorway. “Bring some mulled wine!”

“You do know me,” Paris laughs as Tybalt shuts the door.

* * *

Tybalt leans against the door. “You’d better be grateful, because I’m definitely going to get lectured over that later.”

Volpe laughs, shifting over on the bed so there’s room for Tybalt to sit. Tybalt stares at the space, but can’t bring himself to move yet. Volpe’s lips had been cold from the rain, and Tybalt’s mouth still tingles.

For the past week, he has been telling himself that Volpe couldn’t possibly actually mean it—he was just flirting in fun, he was like that with everyone. But now that he thinks about it, Volpe _hasn’t_ been like that with everyone. Friendly, yes, but not like this. Even when he’s with the Montagues, Tybalt has never seen him throw his arms around Mercutio or Benvolio the way he had with him that night at the White Fox.

_God, he actually does…_

_...Why?_

Volpe finally looks away, leaning over to pick up the lute leaning against the end of the bed. “Never took you for the musical type,” he says, slipping off the armor glove and plucking at the strings.

“It’s not exactly a useful skill in Verona,” Tybalt says with a shrug, grateful for the change in subjects as he sits down on the opposite end of the bed.

Volpe strums a few tentative practice chords, then begins a stanza from a Spanish ballad. 

“ _Aquí se empieza el poema de Mío Cid el de Vivar._  
 _Ya ha poblado Mío Cid aquel puerto de Alucat,_  
 _se aleja de Zaragoza y de las tie_ —hey!”

Volpe yelps in protest as Tybalt takes the lute away from him. “Better stop that before my uncle comes to investigate the noise,” Tybalt says. They’re sitting next to each other now, and one of the long silver ribbons holding Volpe’s mask falls across Tybalt’s shoulder as Volpe turns towards him. Tybalt feels a sudden urge to tug at it, and focuses on adjusting the tuning of the lute instead.

“It wasn’t that loud,” Volpe complains, leaning on Tybalt’s shoulder. Tybalt ignores the droplets of water dripping onto his jacket from Volpe’s hair.

“No, but you are _very_ bad.”

Volpe grumbles at this, but quiets as Tybalt begins to test the tuning.

“ _O rosa bella, o dolce anima mia,_  
 _non mi lassar morire in cortesia._  
 _Ai lasso mi dolente dezo finire_  
 _per ben servire e lealmente amare._ ”

“There, that’s how it’s—” Tybalt starts as he turns to hand the lute back to Volpe, then stops short when he realizes just how close their faces are.

Volpe starts to pull back. “Sorry, I—”

Tybalt lets the lute fall to the floor. Cautiously, he puts a hand around the back of Volpe’s head and brings their faces together, tilting his head slightly so he doesn't collide with the mask. Volpe freezes, and for a moment Tybalt expects him to bolt and vanish through the window, but then he puts his arms around Tybalt’s neck and deepens the kiss, pulling him down onto the bed. Volpe smells like the cool rain and the metal of the mask, and the faint scent of flowers clinging to his damp hair.

Just as Tybalt reaches for the first button of Volpe’s white jacket, there is a knock on the door. “Tybalt? Tybalt, why’s your door locked?”

“Oh sh—Juliet!” Tybalt gasps half into Volpe’s mouth as he starts to break away.

“Huh?”

“Quiet!” Tybalt pulls Volpe off the bed and shoves him into the wardrobe. “Stay there!” he says, hoping that this command will go better than the last time he tried it. Then he opens the door to face his cousin. “Juliet! Hello! What are you doing? ...Here.”

“What, am I not allowed to come talk to you? I haven’t seen you all day, so I brought your wine.” She pushes the door fully open before Tybalt it occurs to Tybalt to try to stop her. She is indeed holding a tray with a steaming mug of mulled wine. “So, if you’re not in the mood for conversation, I’ll just leave this over here, I suppose.” She gives him a sharp look as she steps past him to set the tray down on the chest sitting next to the bookcase, then her gaze begins to drift across the room. “Did you leave your window open? There’s water all over the floor.”

Tybalt tries to laugh casually, stepping back and trying to block Juliet’s view of Volpe’s silver glove lying on the bed. “The latch must have been loose...you know Isotta plays with it. It’s been freezing in here all afternoon, so…” He gestures at the wine. “Thank you,” he adds. “Sorry, I really appreciate it, it’s just. Well.”

“Father’s been awful today, hasn’t he.” Tybalt nods vigorously, offering an internal prayer of thanks that this is the theory Juliet has landed on. “Well, I’ll leave you in peace.” Juliet dips into a playful curtsy, then runs back down the stairs.

Tybalt crosses himself quickly as he shuts the door behind her, then walks over to open the wardrobe.

"Help?"

Volpe is sitting awkwardly under a row of Tybalt's coats, trying to hold off a large orange furry creature that is pawing at his mask.

"Tristano!" Tybalt leans down so the cat can make the jump to get on his shoulder, only staggering a little as Tristano's weight makes impact. "I was wondering where you were."

Volpe scrambles out of the wardrobe, tossing aside a jacket that had fallen down on him. "You've got a lot of fancy stuff," he remarks in a casual tone, but Tybalt can distinguish the question in it.

"From my aunt."

"Ah." Volpe nods in understanding; sometimes, Tybalt wonders if perhaps the mask is because Volpe is on the run from a similarly unpleasant family situation, and wants to avoid being taken back to Pisa. Whatever the cause, Volpe doesn't follow that topic any further. "So. Tristano, huh?" He reaches out to pet the cat with a wary look at his large round paws.

"Let me guess: you didn't take me for the literary type either?" Tybalt tugs Tristano off his shoulder and sets him down on the bed. 

“I can’t say I don’t like being surprised,” Volpe says, sitting down a safe distance away. "What _are_ you doing?" he asks as Tybalt lays down on the floor to reach under the bed.

"Isotta should be hiding somewhere around...there you are, princess, come here…"

* * *

Paris watches in delight as Tybalt emerges holding a smaller gray cat with large green eyes. “You gave Isotta a fright when you started tapping at the window,” Tybalt says, looking a little embarrassed at having an audience while he was trying to coax her out from under the bed.

“My honor will never recover,” Paris gasps in mock horror. “I shall have to go to the Crusades.”

Tybalt laughs. Isotta purrs and rubs against his face. “No need for all that,” he replies. “The Holy Grail will do, if you have it lying around.”

“Fresh out of Grails, I’m afraid.”

“What a pity.” Tybalt sits down between Volpe and Tristano, and Isotta jumps down to settle on his lap.

Paris reaches out slowly to let her sniff at his fingers. “Will my eternal devotion serve, perhaps?”

“It might.”

Paris looks up and closes his eyes as Tybalt slowly leans closer.

“ _Tybalt!_ ”

Paris jumps in surprise, his eyes flying open as Lord Capulet’s shout echoes up the stairs.

“What does he want now...” Tybalt sighs, gently pushing Isotta off his lap.

“I should go…” Paris says. _Uncle will be wondering where I am if I don’t turn up for supper._

“Right. Well.” Tybalt starts to stand and Paris grabs his sleeve.

“Meet me tomorrow night,” he says quickly. “Behind the theatre.”

“Alright.” Tybalt smiles briefly, his hand brushing through Paris’ as he pulls away.

Paris falls back on the bed, beaming, as the door closes behind Tybalt. _Tomorrow night!_ Despite the interruptions, he had barely dared to dream of things going this far with Tybalt. It’s still hard to believe it really happened.

_I need to get going before anyone notices I’m missing at the Palace._ Paris stands up reluctantly and is halfway through opening the window when he sees the armor glove on his left hand is missing. “Now where did that…” He looks back at the bed and notices a glitter of metal under Tristano’s fur. “Nice kitty...let me have that…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Paris sings a few lines from Cantar del Mio Cid, an epic poem from the 12th century about a Spanish warrior. Tybalt sings the first verse of O Rosa Bella, an Italian courtly love poem from the 14th century (a translation and recording, although in an arrangement for multiple voices, can be found here: http://www.vam.ac.uk/content/articles/r/renaissance-music/)
> 
> Ryuu Masaki, who played Tybalt in the version of Takarazuka's 2012 production that most of the characters are based on, has no cats, so I borrowed Tristano and Isotta from two other members of the cast: https://imgur.com/a/nslGk8f. Luce (Isotta) belongs to Miya Rurika (Mercutio), and Okoge (Tristano) belongs to Asumi Rio (Romeo)
> 
> A friend drew a beautiful illustration for Chapter 3! Go check it out <3 https://onestepatatime32.tumblr.com/post/189816409175/tybalt-from-chapter-3-of-what-say-you-to-my


	10. Chapter 10

_You know you’ll have to tell him eventually._

Paris puts his chin in his hands, staring into the mirror on his dressing table. He hates the rational side of himself sometimes. Sighing, he starts undoing the long braid he slept in and reaches for a brush.

When he first ran into Tybalt as Volpe, he was far too drunk to actually consider the implications of what he was doing. And later, when he started running around in disguise on purpose, he assumed it would never go far enough that the double identity would actually become an issue. He would have been satisfied, overjoyed, even, with just a few light kisses. Even a simple conversation was more than he had hoped.

But then yesterday had happened.

Of course Tybalt had _said_ Volpe’s identity didn’t matter, that he didn’t care who he was kissing (or more, if they hadn’t been interrupted). But he had said that to someone he thought was a travelling foreigner having nothing to do with the feud splitting his city in two, not the heir to Verona’s ruler. If he had known…

Paris yanks the brush through his hair. _Why did things have to get so complicated?_ He thinks angrily, before remembering he had been making things worse for himself practically from the moment he arrived in Verona.

It would be so much easier to be honest about this if he hadn’t made Tybalt hate Count Paris first. But he’s done a very thorough job of that.

_Maybe I don’t have to tell him yet._ Tybalt had promised to meet him tonight, outside the Capulet mansion, where they were less likely to be interrupted. _I could always wait until after that…_

Even as he thinks of it, Paris knows he can’t take the lie that far. Despite his debauched reputation in Florence, he came by all of it through honest means.

_I’ll tell him tonight_ , he decides. _And hopefully he lets me live long enough to get a chance to explain…_

Before Paris has time to plan any further, he hears shouting and footsteps running up the stairs. He can’t make out any words, but he can tell the Prince is furious. _If he found out—_

Paris whirls around on the stool as he hears the door to his door to his suite slam open and closed, but it’s Mercutio who appears in the bedroom doorway, not their uncle. “Wha—”

“Tell him I’m not here!” Mercutio whispers, clasping his hands pleadingly.

“Why…”

“Paris?” the Prince calls, knocking at the door to the suite.

Mercutio puts a finger to his lips and hides in the shadow of Paris’ wardrobe—not inside it, thankfully, because he would have quickly run across Volpe’s clothes if he had.

For a moment Paris considers turning his cousin over to the Prince, but then remembers the sympathy he has started to feel for him during their encounters as Volpe. Besides, if he does that then whatever shouting match is clearly brewing will just end up happening in his suite, which is an unbearable prospect. Sighing, he straightens his gold brocade dressing gown and tries to smooth his loose hair into a presentable state before walking to the door and opening it a few inches.

“Uncle?” Paris blinks at the Prince innocently and covers a false yawn. He’s had years of practice at hiding boys in his room, albeit usually for very different reasons. “Has something happened?”

“Er. In a manner of speaking, yes. Is Mercutio in there?”

“Mercutio? No, you’re the first person I’ve seen this morning. He never comes in here…” Paris combs some hair out of his face with his fingers, still holding the door with his other hand so the Prince can’t open it any further.

The Prince’s trust in him seems to have saved the day once again. “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” the Prince says with a slight nod. “Do let me know if you see him.”

“Certainly,” Paris smiles as he shuts the door and locks it, then walks back to the bedroom. “What on earth was all that about?” he demands as Mercutio emerges from behind the wardrobe. 

“I was going out, and I ran into him, and he wanted to know what I was up to, and one thing led to another, and then he said he was going to take away my knife collection, so. Yeah. Thanks for uh, saving me. I guess you’re not entirely, like, awful.”

“That's the nicest thing anybody's ever said to me,” Paris replies dryly. Then his brain catches up with the rest of Mercutio’s rapid explanation. “...Why do you have a knife collection?”

Mercutio looks baffled. “You don't?”

“No, why would—hey!” Paris snaps as Mercutio starts yanking at the drawers of his dressing table.

“You have like seven of whatever the hell this is—”

“I know you know what a curler is, Mercutio,” Paris retorts as he takes it away and returns it to the drawer, shooing Mercutio away from the dressing table before he can fling open any more drawers and find Volpe’s necklace.

“—whatever. But no knives.”

“Yes, because I don’t need one,” Paris says. This doesn’t seem to make any more sense to his cousin.

“If you’re in Verona you should have one,” Mercutio says insistently, gesturing at the sheath buckled around his leg. _Wonder of wonders, is he actually worried about me?_ “Otherwise somebody else is going to stab you first.”

“It just seems to me like less stabbing on average might be a good goal,” Paris points out.

“That would be nice, sure, but am I going to be the one to start that? No! Because Tybalt will stab me!” Mercutio mimes staggering and pulling a dagger out of his chest.

“Why do you hate the Capulets so much?” Paris decides to try a different argument.

“Because all my friends are Montagues,” Mercutio replies with a shrug.

“And why are all your friends Montagues…?”

Paris can already half-guess the answer. “Because we hate the Capulets,” Mercutio confirms.

“Ah. That’s very...logical…” 

“Thanks.”

Paris wonders if it’s too early yet for a drink. A few bottles ‘borrowed’ from the wine cellar are hiding under a cloak in the wardrobe, next to Volpe’s clothes.

“Mind if I…?” Mercutio gestures out the bedroom door towards the balcony. “I don’t want to run into him again on my way out.”

“Be my guest,” Paris says, pinching the bridge of his nose as he waves Mercutio away.

Mercutio barely waits for him to finish speaking before he darts out of the bedroom. Paris waits until he hears leaves rustling and a thump that was hopefully Mercutio jumping to the ground on purpose before sitting back down at the dressing table and picking up the hairbrush.

_I really need to do something about this soon because if Tybalt murders my cousin that will probably make things kind of awkward between us..._

Paris considers heading into the city right away, but decides it’s in Volpe’s best interests to make an appearance as Count Paris first. After Mercutio’s flight, the palace is calmer, but the Prince is still clearly irritated when Paris enters the office.

“Paris!” the Prince exclaims, pushing aside a stack of papers. “What brings you here?”

“You work so hard, Uncle,” Paris says, picking up a few of them to glance over. The bakers’ guild is complaining about the destruction of their wares during the festival, and Friar Laurence is requesting a small donation for the church to fund repairs on stained glass damaged during a winter storm. “I was wondering if I could help you.”

The Prince gives him another of those relieved, I’m-so-glad-you’re-not-like-your-useless-cousin smiles. “You’re too kind, my boy.”

_Damn, I thought he’d say no!_ Paris thinks as he smiles back and takes the pile of papers the Prince hands him. 

“If you could just help me sort these…”

It’s nearly noon by the time Paris escapes the office with a final bow to his uncle. _Count Paris has done his duty for the day, so now Volpe is free to have as much fun as he likes,_ he thinks as he runs up the stairs to his suite to change his clothes and rearrange his hair.

Despite Volpe’s usual lack of ornamentation, today Paris picks out a silver sash and a small silver pin for his hair. He doesn’t think it will help much, but it might make things a tiny bit less of a shock when he takes the mask off.

As he perches on the balcony to jump to the branch below, he thinks of something else and runs back to his wardrobe to grab a white cloak. _Just in case I get caught in the rain again,_ he thinks as he throws it over one shoulder and ties the cords.

After he makes it to the street outside the palace, Paris takes a circuitous route around the palace wall so that he comes on the central street from the Montague side in the east. Since Mercutio also left from his balcony this morning, Paris doesn’t want him guessing anything by the direction he comes from.

_Where are they today…_

Paris climbs up to the roof of the weavers’ guild headquarters to get a look around. He can hear shouting in the distance, and sees a vague cluster of red and blue in the plaza near the city gate. _There!_ He jumps to the next roof and runs towards the sound.

As he arrives on the roof of a row of shops facing the plaza, he can distinguish that the clamor is full of more genuine rage than he’s heard over the past few days. The Montague and Capulet groups are arranged in a loose circle around a few figures, and Paris can see Tybalt’s red-streaked hair in the center as he holds Mercutio nearly off the ground by the front of his violet leather jacket. Mercutio spits at him, and Tybalt hurls him away into Benvolio’s arms.

_For heaven’s sake, not today!_ Paris thinks as he jumps from the roof and runs toward the crowd.

* * *

“What the devil do you all think you’re playing at!”

Tybalt blinks as Volpe suddenly appears between them and shoves him and Mercutio apart. “This isn’t anything you need to worry about,” he says, trying to push Volpe out of the way so he can get a clear path to Mercutio, but Volpe is holding tight to the front of Tybalt’s jacket, his other hand on his hip bunched in his white cloak.

“The hell it isn’t! What are you trying to do, kill each other?”

“I mean...yeah?” Mercutio interrupts defensively and Volpe turns to glare at him too.

“What in heaven’s name _for?_ ”

Volpe has never been on the scene for a real fight, and in the face of his furious incredulity the fun goes out of things somewhat. “I said hearing his puns made me wish I had died of the plague with my parents,” Tybalt admits. Mercutio’s family had died in the same epidemic, so Tybalt knows this is enough push him into drawing his blade.

_“Oh my god.”_

“I was trying to stop them!” Romeo volunteers. Tybalt rolls his eyes.

“Yes! Thank you! Good boy, I swear you’re the only other rational person in this damn town,” Volpe says. “You, what did you do.” He lets go of Tybalt’s jacket to point at Mercutio.

“Why did I have to do anything?” Mercutio shrugs, still holding his knife.

“You definitely did something, what was it.”

Mercutio crosses his arms. Benvolio nudges him. “Alright, god, fine. So like, hypothetically, I mayyyyyy havesaidsomeshitabouthisaunt.”

“Why the _hell_ …” 

“Look, it’s hot! I was bored!”

Volpe lets out a long harsh sigh, pushing away from Tybalt. “God, I don’t even care anymore. I wish I’d never come to Verona. I wish I’d never laid eyes on any one of you!”

Tybalt reaches for Volpe, but he shoves him out of the way, running past Mercutio and his friends and towards the Montague sector. By this point, almost everyone else has lost interest and left the plaza, leaving only Tybalt, Mercutio, Romeo, and Benvolio standing there awkwardly.

“Well, nobody’s hurt, so we might as well all go home?” Romeo suggests hopefully.

Tybalt’s knife falls from his suddenly frozen hand. Droplets of blood fly from it as it hits the ground, and Mercutio jumps back as it splatters across his shoes.

All of them stare at it for a moment.

“Oh god,” says Romeo.

Tybalt takes a deep breath. A sick feeling comes over him as he realizes what Volpe must be thinking. “Which way did he go?”

* * *

Paris watches the blood spreading slowly across the sun-warmed roof from under the folds of his white cloak. 

_Is that a lot? It looks like a lot._

His vision is starting to blur. 

_How am I supposed to know? Not like I make a business of getting myself stabbed._

He can feel tears start to flow under the mask, but he can barely make himself move enough to blink. 

_Stupid, stupid idiot! You were so damn_ happy, _running around after Tybalt in your silly little mask, and all you’ve done is get him hanged if anyone finds out what happened._

Biting back a moan, he tries to press the cloak against the wound, feeling blood seep inside the armor glove. 

_It hurts, damn it...I wish I never left Florence..._


	11. Chapter 11

“It looks like he turned here…” Tybalt gestures to a faint blood-smudged handprint at the foot of a staircase leading up into the heart of the Montague trading center.

“Remind me why we’re doing all this again?” Mercutio calls from the bottom of the stairs as Tybalt starts up, followed by Benvolio and Romeo. “It’s not like it’s a problem for me if Tybalt gets hanged, you know. I don’t see why we’re trying to stop that from happening.”

Tybalt tenses, but doesn’t turn around. Anything he says to defend himself at this point could only make things worse—at this point, it barely matters to him if Mercutio and his Montague friends decide to denounce him to the Prince afterwards, as long as they find Volpe first. 

When Volpe had half-jokingly (as Tybalt thought) promised ‘eternal devotion’ last night, Tybalt hadn’t imagined he would take it so far as to go to his own death over an accident that had been entirely Tybalt’s fault. Even if Mercutio had been the one to start flinging insults, Tybalt had drawn his knife first.

And now his hands are covered in Volpe’s blood.

“I mean, we don’t want Volpe to die,” Romeo says. “And we’re kind of in a hurry?”

“Fine, I guess that makes sense,” Mercutio grumbles. Tybalt can hear him starting to ascend the stairs.

A few minutes later, Tybalt stops, looking up the wall of a warehouse. “How did he even…” He eyes the distance up to the tiny ledge between the stories and the smear of blood on one of the shuttered windows. Backing up as far as he can in the narrow alley, Tybalt takes a running start at the wall.

“Found him!” he calls back down as loudly as he dares as he scrambles over the edge.

Volpe is sprawled in a heap on the far side of the roof, near a pile of unused drying racks. The scent of the scattered scraps of dried herbs covering the roof doesn’t stop Tybalt from feeling sick as he steps closer and sees the pool of bright red blood seeping from under the white cloak.

“Volpe?”

Volpe doesn’t react as Tybalt kneels next to him, but he stirs slightly when Tybalt reaches out to brush his thumb just under the edge of the mask, his fingers twitching a little in the armor glove.

Tybalt jumps and whirls around as a trapdoor slams open behind him, his hand going to the hilt of his knife instinctively.

“Whoa, whoa,” Benvolio shows his empty hands as he climbs onto the roof. “Need help? Mercutio broke the lock on the door.”

“Ah. Sure…” Benvolio seems to know what he’s doing so Tybalt steps back to let him undo Volpe’s sash and knot it firmly over his folded cloak.

It takes both of them to get him down the ladder into the interior of the warehouse where Mercutio and Romeo are waiting, and Volpe gasps in pain as Tybalt takes him in his arms at the bottom of the ladder, his eyes finally opening. “Volpe!”

“T...Tybalt?” Volpe winces and Tybalt tries to shift position so he can be more comfortable. “What are you doing here.”

Tybalt tries to keep his voice even. “We’re going to help you, okay, just—”

“No!” Volpe pushes at Tybalt’s chest. “No, no no, listen, alright, I’m dying, but it’s fine, nobody’s going to get in trouble—”

“...what?”

“Just dump the body in the river, nobody will miss me, everything will be fine, just _don’t take the mask off,_ ” Volpe says in a rush, pulling at Tybalt’s jacket so he can look him in the eyes.

“The...what you’re describing is _not_ fine,” Tybalt protests.

“Just say you’ll do it!”

“Alright, alright, I promise!” 

Volpe smiles slightly, his eyes closing again as his head drops against Tybalt’s shoulder. Tybalt nearly panics before he notices Volpe’s breathing is ruffling the fringe of his jacket. “We have to get him to a doctor,” he says, looking to Benvolio.

“Where are we supposed to find a doctor who won’t turn us in to my uncle?” Mercutio says. “He’s pretty serious about the whole hanging thing. I don’t think anyone’s going to let us in.”

“Friar Laurence?” Romeo suggests. “He knows about that stuff.”

“Not enough for this, I think,” Benvolio says. He goes silent for a moment, then sighs. “I know where we can go.”

Tybalt isn’t sure where he had been expecting Benvolio to lead them, but it wasn’t a small house sitting in the shadow of the Montague mansion. “Ben, this is…” Romeo says quietly.

“Yeah, I know.” Benvolio knocks gently on the door of the house before opening it. “Mother? Mother, we need some help…”

A tall woman with thick blond hair steps out of the kitchen, then freezes as she sees the group in the entryway. “My god, Benvolio, what have you done?” she hisses as she shoves past them to close and lock the door and pull the curtain closed, before rushing around the main room to close the rest of the curtains. “You know what the Prince said! This could get all of us killed!”

“He needs help, Mother,” Benvolio gestures at Tybalt, still standing awkwardly in front of the door holding Volpe.

“A Capulet?” She looks at Tybalt suspiciously.

“Not really...it was an accident...it’s complicated.” Benvolio sighs. “Please, Mother.”

“Alright, alright…” Benvolio’s sigh comes from his mother’s side, apparently. “Wait there one second.” She steps back into the kitchen, and all of them jump in surprise a moment later as a massive crash of metal and ceramic echoes into the main room. “Alright, bring him in here.”

Although Tybalt knows Volpe isn’t a large man, he has never felt small before now. He seems tiny and delicate as Tybalt steps around the remnants of the baking Benvolio’s mother has swept to the floor and places him on the clean tablecloth. "You can…?"

Benvolio's mother blows some dust off a small chest she takes out of one of the kitchen cabinets. "I know as much as my husband ever did," she says calmly as she opens it to reveal an assortment of instruments. "You three—" she nods towards Romeo, Benvolio and Mercutio "—go clean up outside, make sure nobody can see any blood. You help me here," she continues, handing Tybalt a damp cloth.

Benvolio grabs a bucket and a brush and backs out of the kitchen, pulling Mercutio with him. Romeo follows them. Just as the front door starts to close Romeo says something Tybalt can't quite make out.

"Wait, you did _what!?_ " Mercutio's shout can be heard through the door clearly.

"For heaven's sake, that boy will never learn to be quiet," Benvolio's mother sighs as she cuts through Volpe's sash and the ties of the cloak. Tybalt winces as she pulls the jacket open to expose the bloody gash in Volpe's side, but she doesn't appear shocked. "You hold him while I work," she says briskly.

* * *

Paris wakes up in a dim room full of milling shadows. He tries to sit up, but finds he can barely move. Words won’t come either.

He can see a misty form of someone else in the corner of the room, a dark, sinuous shadow with gray skin and sharp clutching fingers. 

_I can’t breathe!_

He panics, choking against the closing feeling as the cold hands reach for his throat. _No!_

“Don’t touch me!”

Paris sits bolt upright and gasps at the pain in his side as he realizes he’s in a sunlit bedroom, and it’s Tybalt at his side instead of the strange gray shadow. 

“Volpe?” Tybalt lets go of Paris’ hand and pushes his chair back, looking stricken. “I...I’m sorry, if you don’t want me here I understand...”

“No, no—ow!” Paris winces as he tries to reach for Tyalt’s sleeve, and Tybalt quickly leans over the bed to help Paris back down against the pillows. “I didn’t mean you. It was just a dream.” His white jacket is gone and he’s wearing a pale blue dressing gown, but he can tell from the slight silver edges around his vision that the mask is still on, or has been put back on—Tybalt certainly has had plenty of time to figure out who he is, but if he knows, he isn’t treating him any differently yet.

Tybalt sits down again and Paris holds out his hand for him to take. Tybalt lifts it gently and places a soft kiss on the pulse point in his wrist. “What on earth were you thinking?” he says after a long moment of silence.

“...About what?”

“About running off like that.” Paris winces at the hidden anger he can hear in Tybalt’s voice. “You were just going to lie there and bleed to death?”

“I didn’t…” Paris looks down at their intertwined hands. “I didn’t want you to die because of me.”

“You didn’t—” Tybalt’s grip tightens for a second, then he sighs slowly as he lets go of Paris’ hand. “And you didn’t think that maybe I wouldn’t want that either?”

“Oh.” Paris says faintly.

“ ‘Oh,’ indeed,” Tybalt half-smiles. “It turns out we were both lucky.” He reaches past Paris’ shoulder to grab something off the headboard. Paris blinks as he holds up the armor glove. There is a long scratch visible across the chain mail palm. “She said if your glove hadn’t turned the blade, you. You would have died on the spot.” Tybalt drops the glove across Paris’ hand and looks away. “If you really don’t want to see me again, I’ll go. I...I am sorry. I didn’t. No, I did mean it—to kill Mercutio. I just.” Tybalt rests his face in his hands. “I didn’t realize what that meant. And then I saw you on the roof…”

Paris takes his hand and pulls at it until Tybalt leans over the bed far enough that Paris can push himself up to kiss him. “I’m just glad you didn’t kill anyone,” he says as he lays back on the pillows. “Me included...where am I?” he asks, looking around the room. It’s a neatly kept, if small room, with thick wood beams and walls hung with quilts in blue and white. “This isn’t your side of town.”

“This is Benvolio’s house,” Tybalt says. “His father was a surgeon and his mother used to be his assistant, he said. It was the only place we could go without being reported to the Prince at once...but I don’t think she’s happy to have me in the house this long. I should leave now that you’re awake.” 

Tybalt brushes his thumb over the back of Paris’ hand, then starts to push the chair back again, but Paris refuses to let go of his hand. “Wait,” Paris says. “There’s something I should tell you...I’m...I’m not…”

Paris starts to reach for the mask, but Tybalt catches his hand and pushes it back down. “Not now,” Tybalt says gently. “You don’t have to tell me anything now. You can come and tell me once you’ve recovered.”

“But…”

Tybalt takes Paris’ chin, cutting off his protest with a thumb across his lips. “Rest,” he orders firmly, leaning down to kiss the mask.

Paris sighs as he watches Tybalt leave. _You’re not making this any easier..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although everyone was too busy with Other Things for this to come up, Benvolio's mother does have a name: she's called Lodomilla, after another exceedingly ride-or-die character from a Takarazuka show set in Renaissance Italy.


	12. Chapter 12

“Paris! Paris, good God, where have you been!?”

Paris stops in surprise at the sudden uproar when he emerges cautiously from his suite with the brewing sunset. His tendency to either ‘keep to his rooms’ (as he hopes everyone else sees it) or go out into the city for what non-feud entertainment can be had, has never been much remarked on before. Even though he has never been absent from the palace overnight before he had still assumed that barely anyone would notice. Instead, the Prince bursts out of his office and runs halfway up the stairs to the landing as Paris opens the door.

“I was, uh...out?” Paris hopes he isn’t leaning on the railing too obviously.

“Out?” the Prince repeats, something like anger or suspicion rumbling in his voice.

“Yes…? Is something wrong?” Paris had barely made it over the wall to his balcony, and despite trying to dress himself the same as usual he feels sure he looks a far sight from Count Paris’ normal state.

“Paris, we all…” the Prince sighs. “I thought you were murdered.”

Paris braces. “Come again?” he smiles affably, trying to keep the same confused expression.

“Here, come into my office and explain what happened.” The Prince takes Paris’ arm and guides him down the stairs, Paris trying not to lean on him until he makes it into a chair in front of the Prince’s desk. “So.” The Prince sits down and steeples his hands on the desk. “Where have you been?”

“Well, I mean,” Paris stalls. “What did you think happened?”

“All I know is something must have happened between the Montagues and Capulets, because the streets have been quiet as the dead since yesterday afternoon, and nobody from either House is answering questions from my guards. When one of the servants went to fetch you down for supper we realized you weren’t in your rooms…” The Prince’s lips tighten, and Paris presses a hand to his side under his stole, feeling suddenly very guilty. “I had the entire city searched for you, but there was no sign of either you or the man called Volpe. I was starting to think he had…”

“I’m sorry,” Paris says. _Thank god, at least He doesn’t suspect Tybalt._

“I know Mercutio must know something of what happened, but he locked himself in his rooms last night and refuses to talk to anyone. So perhaps you can explain…”

 _At least this is something I can work with,_ Paris thinks, taking a long breath to give himself time to plot. “I’m afraid I can’t explain anything to do with Mercutio or the...feud or whatever it is,” he says, gesturing vaguely. _Oh, that might be laying it on a little thick._ “I haven’t seen any of them at all since yesterday. I haven’t even been in Verona, actually. I’m dreadfully sorry to have worried you...next time I go out I’ll be sure to let you know.” He tries the earnest, apologetic smile that has saved him from angry headmasters more times than he can count. _Mercutio only saw Volpe. As long as they really didn’t take the mask off he can’t tell on me._

The Prince starts to relax at least slightly. “I suppose you couldn’t have known what was going on,” he admits. “But if you weren’t in the city, where were you?”

“I ran into some friends from university at the church,” Paris explains. _God, when was the last time I was in a church? ...To do other things besides kiss the confessor, anyway._ “We got to talking, and I ended up going back to their inn on the road to Mantua...they left noon today. You must not have noticed when I came back to the Palace.”

The Prince is silent. Paris resists the urge to explain his story further—that would only make him look suspicious. “I didn’t mean to cause so much trouble,” he says in a small voice, looking down at his hands.

“This isn’t your fault,” the Prince says finally. “I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“So am I, Uncle,” Paris says, with a light laugh that makes his side burn.

“I wonder if you might try talking to Mercutio,” the Prince says as Paris pushes himself to his feet with the arm of the chair, turning to hide a wince.

“Me?”

“He seems to be starting to trust you. He might be willing to tell you something.”

“I suppose I could try,” Paris replies with a smile. _I just want to go back to my bed and sleep until next week…_

“Paris…”

Paris turns, clinging to the doorway on the side the Prince can’t see. “Uncle?”

“Paris, I...Your father was one of my greatest friends, not only my brother. When I thought you might have come to harm through some oversight of mine…” Paris barely has time to steel himself as the Prince steps out from behind the desk, and a small gasp slips out as the Prince embraces him tightly. “I cannot begin to say how happy I am to see you safe.”

“You—you are too kind, Uncle,” Paris says thickly, finding that it is not only because of the pain he is trying to disguise. “I’ll go talk to Mercutio for you.”

The Prince pats his arm with a quiet nod before returning to his desk. Paris shuts the door to the office and leans against it for a few moments, breathing heavily, then pushes himself off and heads up the stairs.

There is only silence when Paris knocks on Mercutio’s door. “Mercutio? Mercutio, it’s Paris…” Paris calls through the door quietly, knocking again.

The door is suddenly pulled open mid-knock, and Paris nearly falls face-first through the doorway, just managing to catch himself on the doorframe at the last moment.

“Oh, it’s _you_.” Mercutio glares.

“I did say so,” Paris replies tiredly. “Can I come in?”

Mercutio shrugs. “Whatever.”

Mercutio’s suite is an approximate mirror of Paris’ suite at the far end of the corridor, but that is where the similarities end. The furniture is covered with a cluttered assortment of haphazardly tossed clothes, sketches in various stages of completion, and a surprising number of knives.

Heaving a frustrated sigh, Mercutio scoops up a pile of drawings off an armchair so Paris can sit down. Despite only having a few seconds’ glimpse before Mercutio dumps them in a heap on another chair, Paris can see that most of them are of Mercutio’s Montague comrade Benvolio.

“What are you doing here,” Mercutio says, leaning against a table and poking idly at the wood with one of the knives.

“Uncle wanted me to—”

“Wanted you to come up here and interrogate me about what happened yesterday, right, I figured.” Paris winces a little at the sound as Mercutio stabs the knife into the table. “I can’t _believe_ you.”

“Sorry?” _He does know!_

“I heard everything you and Uncle were talking about. This place echoes, you know. I can’t believe you had the gall to go out _partying_ with your stupid friends while—while I was—while we were worried that—!” Mercutio snarls wordlessly and kicks a stray book across the floor.

_Right. Mercutio likes Volpe. So he’s angry that I was out having fun while I was also bleeding to death...this is getting very complicated._

Paris gets a sudden thought that would simplify things immensely. _I could tell him…_ “Mercutio, I…”

“What.”

 _If I tell him, everyone in Verona will know by tomorrow morning, and Tybalt will be arrested by noon._ “Mercutio, you must know he worries about you,” he says instead.

Mercutio laughs harshly. “About me? You’re the only person in this house he cares about!”

“That’s not—”

“I stayed at Romeo’s house for three days once, and he never even noticed I was gone! And then you run off drinking for a night and he goes into a panic. I can’t believe I thought we could be friends.”

 _We already are, and that's the whole problem…_ “I’m sorry, Mercutio, I didn’t mean—”

“The only reason he even bothered to send you up here is because he wants to find out if I broke his stupid edict so he can finally get rid of me! Just...just leave me alone!” Mercutio starts towards the door of the suite before seeming to remember whose rooms he’s currently in. He retreats into his bedroom and slams the door. “Go away!” he yells through the door, as if his point wasn’t clear enough.

Paris sighs and slowly makes his way out of Mercutio's suite, leaning on the wall until he makes it back into his own rooms and collapses onto a sofa. _How am I going to explain this to Tybalt..._ he thinks fuzzily before everything fades.

* * *

Tybalt paces angrily up and down his room. Isotta has been hiding under the bed since the first time he stumbled over her, and Tristano is sitting in a sulky puff on top of the bookcase. His window is open, and he can hear Juliet sniffling quietly at her window below.

He had been certain that his uncle and aunt had given up on the idea of forcing Juliet into marriage with the Prince of Verona’s idiot nephew after Paris had fled the masquerade ball in humiliation, but apparently it had barely served to put them off for a week. 

Everything seemed normal when he returned from Volpe’s bedside, but the house erupted the next morning. Tybalt slept through some of the opening salvos of the argument, so he isn’t exactly sure why Lord and Lady Capulet are so dead set on getting Juliet married as soon as possible, but the reason hardly matters, only that Juliet is weeping in her room after having all her protests shouted down.

With the bride out of the way, her parents have commenced planning for the wedding downstairs. Tybalt sits down on the bed with a sigh—he has planning of his own to do.

The violence that everyone in Verona has been living seems so much more real after watching Benvolio’s mother stitch up Volpe on her bloody kitchen table. Tybalt draws his gold-hilted knife and slowly turns the blade, imagining he can still see Volpe’s blood coating the steel. Until now, he has only wielded his knife in the heat of temper. What he is considering now is far different.

But if the only other option is consigning his cousin to a life of misery, Tybalt will happily slit Count Paris’ throat and let the Prince lay down whatever consequences he pleases.

He hopes Volpe will understand. 


	13. Chapter 13

Paris wakes with a groan at a knock on the door of his suite. Dragging himself painfully out of bed, he pulls on a dressing gown and makes his way slowly to the door, wincing at the bright morning sun coming through the window. Taking a deep breath, he opens the door, putting on Count Paris’ affable smile. “Yes?”

A servant bows. “His Grace would like to see you after you have breakfasted.”

As it turns out, the Prince has decided that the solution to Paris vanishing overnight is to involve him more directly in the day to day logistics of ruling Verona. This wouldn't be a problem—or rather, it would be a different category of problem—except that Paris is still recovering from being stabbed and can't use this fact as an excuse to stay home. Paris tries to protest on the grounds that he has little experience with matters of state, but his law degree and his foolish act of helpfulness before Volpe’s mishap put this argument to rest nearly before it can begin.

Half an hour after his meeting with the Prince, Paris finds himself in an alley off the main street, headed towards the church kept by Friar Laurence. The Prince has tasked him with discussing the amount needed for repairs to the stained glass, and with assessing what can be done to prevent further damage in the future.

Paris’ side still aches, and he's avoiding the main street so that he can lean on walls without being spotted, but he's doing better than yesterday, at least. But he's still no closer to figuring out how to extricate himself from the web of false identities he's caught himself in. _I should be able to make it up to Tybalt’s window by tomorrow_ , he thinks. _I'll tell him then…_

“Well, look who it is.”

It takes Paris a moment to recognize the cold voice behind him. Count Paris has only exchanged a few sentences with Tybalt, after all.

Paris turns slowly, not just because any quick movement still hurts. “Tybalt?” He takes a step back. Tybalt's hand is on the knife at his belt. _What if he did take the mask off?_ “Tybalt, is there something you want to—let me ex—”

Paris tries to pull his arm out of Tybalt's rough grip, but before he can do more than tug away Tybalt shoves him up against the stone wall. _I thought he would be angry, but—_

All of his senses seem to explode as Tybalt's knee slams into the stitches hidden under his coat. He feels as if he's falling through endless panes of light and dark before he finally slams into blackness.

Paris finally comes to enough to realize he's lying on the cobblestone pavement gasping for breath. He tries to push himself up but nothing seems to be working just yet.

A light is glinting into his eyes and something cold is brushing against his cheek. As his vision starts to return, he realizes Tybalt is crouching next to him and he’s looking at the sunlight shining off the gilded soles of his red leather boots.

Tybalt is tapping the flat of his knife slowly against Paris’ face. The unhelpful side of Paris that got him into this whole mess in the first place points out that this is actually very sexy of him.

“Look at you.” Tybalt growls a laugh. “You’re pathetic.”

“Harsh,” Paris tries to reply, but can’t manage anything more than a vague choked noise.

Tybalt snarls and grabs his arm again, jerking him into a half-sitting position against the wall. Paris pushes away, trying to get to his feet and catch what breath he can. _If I could just explain!_ “Tybalt, please, I—”

“At least try to _die_ like a man!”

_He’s really going to—_

Paris reacts instinctively, grabbing Tybalt’s wrist to hold his knife hand down almost before he notices the movement. Tybalt’s other hand grips his hair, pulling his head back painfully as Paris struggles.

A pin falls to the ground.

Tybalt freezes as Paris’ thick twist of hair comes loose, falling down his back at its full length. No longer held up by his grip, Paris sprawls to the ground as Tybalt takes a step back.

Dreading what he will see, Paris pushes himself up enough that he can turn around and look up at Tybalt. Tybalt’s eyes are wide, his face blank.

“...Volpe.”

“Tybalt, I can—”

“What sort of damn game is this.” Tybalt’s eyes narrow as he growls.

“It was never—please let me explain!”

“Shut up!” Tybalt’s hand tightens around the gold hilt of the knife. “So, you thought you could make both of us toys for your pleasure?” Paris can only blink at him in confusion as Tybalt goes on. “You may have been able to fool me, but I will see you and I both—” his voice hitches for a moment. “—both dead before I let you get to Juliet!”

_What? Juliet?_ “What? Juliet?” Paris repeats, feeling very stupid.

This only serves to make Tybalt more angry. “Oh, don’t try to play the fool now!” Paris tries again to rise but Tybalt puts a foot on his chest, holding him down on the pavement as he points his blade at Paris’ face. “I will let you go today,” he says in a flat, cold voice, “For the. For the love which I thought we had. But the next time you dare set foot on Capulet ground I will have your heart!”

“Tybalt, I just—agh!”

Tybalt’s boot catches him in the side as he storms out of the alley, and for the next few minutes all Paris can do is curl up in pain, sobbing for breath.

It feels like days before he recovers enough to stagger back to the palace, even though judging by the position of the sun over the towers it’s barely been an hour since he left. All he wants is a drink and a rest long enough for everything to start making sense again, but when he pushes open the kitchen door he stops short.

Mercutio is sitting on a table in front of the kitchen fire, hunched over a sketchbook and scribbling angrily. Benvolio is leaning on the table next to him. Both of them turn when Paris opens the door.

_Damn, now I have to be Count Paris again...I’m too tired for this._ “Good morning,” he says, straightening up painfully as he steps into the kitchen and closes the door so he can lean against it for a moment. _Aren’t there usually more of them…?_ “Where’s Romeo?”

“Romeo’s a dumbass idiot baby and we hate him!” Mercutio rips a page out of the sketchbook, crumples it up and hurls it into the fire.

“...Okay…”

“Mercutio’s having a tantrum because Romeo eloped with Juliet Capulet and he didn’t tell us for like three days,” Benvolio translates. “Because he knew Mercutio would react like this.”

“You’re a Montague! Why are you not angry about your own cousin being a traitor!?”

“There are more important things happening! My mother—” Benvolio cuts himself off with a glance at Paris. “I just have other things to think about, alright?”

Things slowly begin to come in to focus. “Juliet married...Romeo?” _So why is Tybalt so angry with me?_

“Uh, yeah? Didn’t you hear about it? Why aren’t you mad, I thought you were trying to marry her.”

“...Ah. Right. That...”

_Shit. That explains a lot._

Paris begins to think as quickly as he can over the pain. “Okay. This is fine,” he says, stepping away from the door. “I can work with—”

He reaches for the back of a chair as everything goes misty again, but catches only empty air. When the mist clears a few seconds later, he realises that he isn’t lying on the stone floor of the kitchen, as he expected. Benvolio is half-kneeling under him, looking concerned. _I do not need this right now!_ Paris thinks, trying to push himself up.

“Hold still,” Benvolio says. “What’s wrong?”

“For god’s sake, it’s not even noon!” Mercutio shouts, throwing the sketchbook down on the table and walking over to glare down at Paris. “I’m going to tell Uncle you’ve been stealing from the wine cellar.”

“I don’t think he’s been drinking, Mercutio,” Benvolio says. Paris gasps as the hand Benvolio has around his waist presses on the bandages.

“Are you kidding? It’s basically all he does! I don’t see how Uncle hasn’t—what are you doing?”

“No, don’t—” Paris tries to push Benvolio’s hands away as he opens his jacket and tugs at his shirt, but it hurts to put any strength behind it.

It only takes Benvolio a few seconds to reveal the bandages covering the stitches his mother had so carefully put in two days before.

Mercutio stares blankly as Benvolio helps Paris into a chair. “I’m sorry, what? What the hell is happening?”

Benvolio stands and joins Mercutio, folding his arms. “Yes, is there something you would like to explain, Volpe?”

Paris groans and puts his face in his hands. “It’s complicated…”

“You were spying on us for Uncle!” Mercutio shouts.

“No, no, I swear I wasn’t...Uncle thinks Volpe is a mercenary hired to kill me.”

“Wha…”

“Look, I can explain later, I promise, but right now I need to sort all this out.” Paris reaches for the edge of the table and pushes himself into a standing position with a gasp of pain, putting his arm over the bandages. “Where is Romeo now?”

“What does he…”

“None of us have seen him since yesterday,” Benvolio says. “Why?”

Paris sighs. “I thought you might say that.” _I only have one chance to solve everything before it all goes to hell._ “We need to talk to Tybalt.” 


	14. Chapter 14

“So let me get this straight,” Mercutio says as they leave the central road and head into the Capulet sector. “Not two hours ago, Tybalt attacked you in the street, would have killed you if he didn’t realize you were Volpe, and said he would cut your heart out if you ever turned up in front of him again.”

“Sounds accurate,” Paris replies.

Benvolio sighs something behind them that sounds like _I can’t believe they’re both like this_.

“So can you explain again why we’re going to his house right now?”

“Because—ow.” Paris is feeling a bit better after managing to get an hour’s rest, but it still hurts to talk and move at the same time. “Because, if we don’t find Romeo and Juliet soon, I think they might make some poor decisions—”

“Something you definitely have had no experience in, ever, at all.”

“I know, okay, I’m trying...I think he might be able to tell us where they are.” 

“If he doesn’t kill you first.”

Paris sighs. “Yes. There is that.”

Mercutio shoves his hands in his jacket pockets and looks down at the road, kicking at a loose cobblestone. “I don’t—I didn’t want Volpe to die,” he says slowly.

Paris pauses, putting a hand on a wall. “And how about now.”

Mercutio doesn’t look up. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“Ah.”

They continue walking in silence until they reach the stone wall of the Capulet estate. Paris looks up at the thick trailing vine he had been able to jump up to easily a few days before. “This could be a problem.”

“Need some help?” Benvolio says.

“Nice knowing you,” Mercutio says as Paris steps into Benvolio’s cupped hands. “Maybe. I’ll decide at the funeral.”

“That’s very encouraging, thank you,” Paris grates out as he catches hold of the ivy and scrambles to the top of the wall. Count Paris’ clothes aren’t of much help in this situation, and Paris has to yank the coat free of a thorn, wincing as he hears the fabric tear. He pauses for a moment to catch his breath before moving cautiously along the wall and jumping across to Tybalt’s balcony, barely catching the stone railing.

_He must have heard me coming by now_ , Paris thinks, wincing as he leans against the railing for a moment, but there’s no sign of a reaction from inside. Paris crosses himself quickly and knocks on the window.

Nothing happens.

_If he’s not here I don’t know what we’re going to do…_

Paris is halfway through knocking again when the window is flung open and he finds himself face-to-face with Tybalt, looking as furious as an avenging angel.

“Hi I know you’re angry but this is really important so please at least let me ex—!” Paris breaks off with a yelp as Tybalt hurls him inside and slams the window.

* * *

Paris gasps in pain as Tybalt drags him inside, his eyes going wide as Tybalt shoves him down onto the bed. As he starts to push himself up, Tybalt draws his knife, putting a knee between Paris’ legs and cornering him with his other hand on the headboard.

They stare at each other silently for a long moment.

Tybalt isn’t sure what to do. He had hoped that this morning would be the end of it, that he wouldn’t have to see Paris or Volpe ever again, wouldn’t have to decide whether he could really carry out his threat. He doesn’t think he can forgive Paris for playing with him like this, but after seeing Volpe lying on the roof he doesn’t think he can bear having that blood on his hands again.

“Why the devil did you come here,” Tybalt says finally, putting the point of the knife under Paris’ chin. Now that he knows it’s Volpe’s face he’s looking at, he’s surprised he didn’t notice before now.

“I’m sorry!”

“Sorry? For what, baiting me and ruining my cousins life? An apology won’t save her from a miserable marriage—only your death!”

“This was never about Juliet, I swear! It was only about you!”

“Then why the hell did you—Isotta, no!” Tybalt takes his hand off the headboard to push the cat down as she tries to jump on the bed, but she isn’t dissuaded, bounding up onto Paris’ chest and swiping her paw at the glittering blade of the knife. “You don’t want this, Isotta!” Tybalt says, pulling the knife away and holding it out of her reach. “It’s sharp.” Isotta meows insistently. “No, Isotta, come on...here, look!” He snatches one of the feathered ornaments out of Paris’ hair and throws it across the room. Isotta bounds after it and Tybalt sighs, turning back to Paris, who at least is still politely putting the effort in to look intimidated. “I hope you have a good explanation for this so I don’t have to murder you in front of my cats.”

“I do, I swear,” Paris says as Tybalt takes a step back, letting him sit up on the edge of the bed. “I have...a very good explanation.” He winces and puts a hand to his side under the coat.

“Well. Let’s hear it.”

Paris groans and puts his face in his hands. “It’s a very bad explanation…”

“Just say _something,_ for god’s sake!” Tybalt turns away, shoving the knife back in its sheath but keeping his hand fisted around the hilt.

“I never meant to cause any trouble for Juliet, I promise,” Paris begins quietly. “I was never interested in her at all...I just wanted to talk to you! But I tried at the fair, and that didn’t work out so...so I came here and I let your uncle think what he wanted, so I could get another chance. But then at the masquerade ball, you made it pretty obvious that you weren’t interested…”

_So that’s what all that chaos was about!_ “So you made up Volpe to trick me,” he says, turning around and leaning against the bookcase. Tristano sits down on one of his boots and Tybalt tries not to let this distract him from glaring at Paris.

“I didn’t mean...it was an accident, at first,” Paris says, looking up at him pleadingly. Tybalt tries not to think about Volpe lying in his arms, begging him to let him die. “I was drunk—I didn’t even realize what had happened until the next day.”

“But you kept on lying.”

“I know. I’m sorry, I wanted to tell you, I know I should have, but...Volpe was fun. Volpe had friends.” Paris sighs and looks down at his shoes. “Volpe didn’t have to play at being a fawning little idiot every time he goes out in public so he won’t get poisoned like his parents.”

Tybalt blinks, slowly letting go of the hilt of the knife. “Oh.” Then he thinks of something else. “But what about the accent?”

“That’s just how I talk when I’m not trying to hide it,” Paris says in Volpe’s voice, looking up to face him again. “I can’t come in sounding like a foreigner and saying I’m going to rule the city one day, now can I?” he says with a tight smile. “That’s what makes people start looking up the going rates for poisoners.” He half-shrugs and reaches for the headboard to push himself to his feet, looking warily at Tybalt’s knife hand. “Look, I...I understand why you’re angry, and I’m not asking you to forgive me. Or to—to love me. But right now we need your help.”

“We?” Tybalt frowns. “You mean the Montagues.”

“This concerns your House as well,” Paris says. “We’re looking for Juliet.”

“Juliet? Why? How did you know she was missing?”

“I was afraid you would say that.” Paris sighs. “I think she might be about to do something…” he pauses. “...I know I’m the one saying this, but something, uh, _poorly thought out,_ to get out of marrying me, since everyone seems to be under the impression that’s going to happen, even though nobody actually bothered to check with me about it.”

“You could have just said you didn’t want to,” Tybalt points out, bending down to lift Tristano onto his favorite shelf again.

“I forgot!”

“You _forgot_.”

“I was really drunk,” Paris says. “And then I was.” He waves vaguely in Tybalt’s direction. “Distracted. Anyway. Do you know where she might have gone?”

“No, but I’m starting to get an idea what she might...wait here.” Tybalt bolts out of the room and heads downstairs towards the master bedroom. By the time he returns, Isotta is curled up on Paris’ lap. _Traitor,_ he thinks, but finds he can’t put much anger behind it. “My aunt’s poison chest is gone.”

“Your aunt has…”

“It was a wedding gift from her mother.”

“...Are _all_ Capulets like this?”

Tybalt feels a small smile escape. “Only the ones related to her, apparently. Come on, we can’t waste any—” Tybalt opens the window again, then looks back at Paris. Considering the state Volpe had been in, and the way Tybalt had treated Paris in the alley, he’s surprised he was able to make it up to the balcony in the first place, especially with the long vest and scarf he’s wearing.

_Oh, this is going to be very awkward._

“Tybalt, what—oh!” Paris gasps as Tybalt scoops him up.

“Hang on,” Tybalt says. “And don’t get any ideas. I’m only doing this so we can find Juliet.”

Paris sits dutifully still. “Of course.”

Tybalt finds, as he climbs down to the wall with Paris’ arms around him and smelling the light scent of flowers from his hair, that perhaps he is the one getting ideas.


	15. Chapter 15

“Oh, he lives,” Mercutio says, shielding his eyes from the sun as he watches Tybalt climb down the wall with Paris in his arms.

“So he does.” Benvolio nudges Mercutio’s arm.

“God, fine,” Mercutio grumbles, rummaging in his pockets for a few coins.

“You were _betting_ on whether he would kill me?” Paris complains as Tybalt sets him down. He’s starting to have trouble retrieving Count Paris’ Northern accent, and both of them look startled to hear Volpe’s speech slipping in and out.

“Mercutio never pays for anything when—ow!”

“ _Not_ the time,” Mercutio hisses, looking ready to kick Benvolio’s shin again.

Paris sighs, stepping away from Tybalt. Him helping them at all is already more than he has any right to ask, so he might as well make it as little horribly awkward for him as he can. “Alright, alright, enough of...whatever is happening. Tybalt’s going to help us look for Romeo and Juliet, and I don’t think we have a lot of time.”

Benvolio catches the urgency in Paris’ voice before Mercutio does. “What’s wrong?”

“Juliet has been missing from our estate since this morning, at least,” Tybalt says before Paris can respond. “And she took her mother’s poison chest with her.”

“Why does Lady Capulet have—” Mercutio begins.

“It was passed down by her mother in case she needed to get rid of her husband,” Tybalt says before he can finish. “Now can we get out of here before someone spots us?”

“Are _all_ Capulets like this?” Benvolio says under his breath as Paris leads the way out of the Capulet sector. 

They reconvene a few minutes later at a table in the back of the White Fox, the only place Paris can think of where both Montagues and Capulets commonly turn up. The tavern has been nearly dead in the few days since Volpe’s accidental stabbing, and nobody else is there to disturb them. Paris finds himself sitting uncomfortably between Tybalt and Mercutio, trying to keep as much distance as possible between himself and Tybalt despite the fact that four of them are sitting at a table that would have been tight for two.

Paris expects Tybalt to make a cutting reference to his and Volpe’s first meeting, but there are more pressing matters at hand. “Where have you already looked?” he asks.

“Most of the places we hang out,” Mercutio says. “The plaza, the church, the Montague crypt, Romeo’s favorite spot in the woods…”

“The crypt?” Paris repeats.

“It’s cool in the summer, alright? He wasn’t there, anyway.”

“What about the theatre?” Tybalt says. “Juliet used to love it. One of the stagehands was a relative of her nurse, so she would go backstage whenever they would let her—she could have gone there.”

“Alright, that sounds like as good a plan as any,” Paris says, pushing his chair back. “Let’s have a look.” He has to lean on the table for a minute before he can fully rise. He knows that if he had any sense he would be back at the palace resting, but there’s no time for that now.

“My god, it’s like we’re in Pyramus and Thisbe,” Mercutio exclaims as they leave the tavern. “I can’t believe Romeo would be so stupid as to marry a Capulet!”

Paris runs into Tybalt’s back as he stops short. “Ow.”

“Oh god. He didn’t know that part, did he.” Mercutio starts backing away. Benvolio positions himself between Mercutio and Tybalt, putting an arm out to bar the way.

_Damn it, it’s all falling apart!_ Paris thinks as Tybalt takes a deep breath, resting his hand on his knife.

“Well,” Tybalt finally says, a cold smile in his voice, “she could certainly do _worse_.”

Paris stumbles forward, barely catching himself on a wall as Tybalt shoves him roughly. “Right, that’s me…” He manages a weak laugh as he regains his balance. Tybalt looks away with a toss of his red-streaked curls as Paris glances back at him.

Benvolio frowns. “Are you…”

“I’m fine,” Paris says, pressing a hand over the bandages. “The theatre?”

Verona’s shuttered theatre is only a short distance away, but before they’ve even made it down one street Paris finds himself trailing far behind the others. 

Someone catches his arm as he stumbles over a loose cobblestone. Paris looks up to see Tybalt gazing straight ahead. “I’m not going to have my cousin poison herself because you couldn’t keep up,” he says, pulling Paris to his feet.

Paris looks back down at the road. “Thank you for helping us,” he says. “You...you don’t ever have to see me again after this. I’m going to ask my uncle to send me back to Florence.”

“Are you now.” Tybalt’s voice is cool. _Of course it wouldn’t matter to him if Count Paris leaves...he only ever cared about Volpe, but Volpe never existed, did he?_

By the time they arrive at the theatre, Paris is clinging to Tybalt’s leather jacket to remain upright, and Tybalt’s other arm is around his waist. Paris tries his best not to enjoy it, even though this is surely the last time Tybalt will ever be willing to touch him. There are far more important things going on right now.

“Back here!” Benvolio calls quietly as he and Mercutio search the outside of the theatre.

One of the windows in the backstage area is broken, and a few of the boards over the window have been pulled loose. A scrap of pink lace flutters from one of the exposed nails.

“Juliet’s dress…” Tybalt pries another board loose with his knife and starts to climb over the windowsill as the others cluster around. He pauses and turns back with one leg inside. Paris looks at him blankly as their eyes meet, then gasps as Tybalt catches him around the waist again, pulling him into his arms. “Keep quiet,” Tybalt whispers through his hair as he sets him inside.

The theatre’s prop room is lit by a few large skylights, which have been joined by holes fallen through the deteriorating roof. Velvet draperies swirl around staircases to nowhere, and costumes are arrayed on their stands like ranks of courtiers. Paris nearly stumbles over an ivied column and Tybalt grabs his arm.

As Mercutio follows the rest of them through the window, his jacket catches on the point of a sword hanging on a rack on the wall. Benvolio whirls around but Mercutio shoves him out of the way, and all four of them watch the props slowly slide to the floor and clatter into a heap.

Paris turns when he hears a soft gasp and murmur. Behind a gauze-draped statue of Venus in the back of the room he sees a brief flutter of pink and blue.

Tybalt pushes past him, running towards the statue. “What the hell do you think you’re doing put that down!” he shouts as he vaults over a gilt wood throne.

Something falls to the marble floor with a smash of glass. “T-Tybalt!? How did you—”

“Benvolio! Mercutio! What are you doing here?”

Paris finally makes it over the heap of furniture, panting. Underneath the statue of Venus, Romeo is standing in front of Juliet protectively. A small case made of gold and ivory lays shattered on the ground at their feet, green liquid trickling out from beneath the blade-sharp fragments.

“Did either of you drink any of that?” Benvolio demands.

“N-no, we—” Romeo begins.

As Paris steps into the circle, Juliet shoves Romeo out of the way, yanking his dagger from its sheath at his belt. “I will never marry you, Count Paris!” she shouts, holding it out in front of her with both hands. Romeo tries to grab it back but she only takes one hand off the hilt long enough to slap his hand away.

“Yes, thank God, nobody wants that,” Paris says with an exhausted sigh as they struggle over the knife.

Everything goes silent for a moment. All of them are staring at him.

“...that came out rather rude, didn’t it. I mean, I’m sure you’re very nice, it’s just...well. You are, uh, a girl, and I was actually trying to...things got a bit out of hand and…”

“Oh, for the love of—”

Paris freezes in shock as Tybalt grabs him around the waist and pins him against a column with a fervent kiss. Half-gasping into Tybalt’s mouth, Paris seizes the embroidered lapels of his red leather jacket to pull him closer.

“...Oh,” says Juliet. “You could have _said_ something.”

“Is this new?” Romeo asks.

“I can _not_ believe we’re related,” Mercutio sighs.

“I can,” Benvolio says.

Tybalt finally breaks the kiss, but keeps an arm around Paris’ waist. “So,” Paris says, his head still spinning. “Yes. That. I...that’s happening, apparently.”

“Indeed it is.” Tybalt presses a kiss into Paris’ hair, sounding smug.

“I...what...anyway, I promise you do not need to worry about me trying to marry you,” Paris says, “So there’s no need for all of—” he waves at the broken casket on the ground, “—that.” _And it’s probably for the best Lady Capulet doesn’t have it any more, either._

“But…” Juliet finally relinquishes her hold on the dagger as Romeo tugs at it. “But our parents will still never allow our marriage.”

“That’s right,” Romeo says, sheathing the dagger and putting his arms around Juliet as she leans back against him. “We can’t just go home…”

“My aunt and uncle definitely aren’t going to take this well,” Tybalt says. Juliet starts to sniff and Paris feels Tybalt’s fingers tighten around his arm.

“Can’t imagine mine will be happy either,” Benvolio adds.

“Th...they’ll force us to get an annulment!” Juliet puts her face in her hands. Romeo strokes her hair gently.

“I...I think I can work something out,” Paris says quickly. “Don’t panic, alright, everything will be fine. Just. Come back to the palace with me before anyone turns up to investigate the noise.”

The Prince looks up from his work as the disheveled group crowds into his office, Paris carefully steering Romeo and Juliet into the center directly in front of the desk and making sure Mercutio and Tybalt end up on opposite sides of the room.

“Paris, my boy, how were things at...the...church...What’s all this, now?” he says, setting a pile of papers aside and folding his hands on the desk.

“Wonderful news, Uncle!” Paris declares, pushing Romeo and Juliet forward. “I’ve solved your feud for you!”

“...Oh dear.”

* * *

“So,” the Prince says, somewhat muffled as his face is still buried in his hands, “You’ve been running around with a Capulet behind my back the entire time you’ve been in Verona, when I specifically brought you here to ensure the ruling House was neutral.”

“You didn’t seem to mind when you thought it was Juliet I was interested in,” Paris protests. “Also, may I point out, feud: solved.” Romeo smiles nervously as Paris nudges him, clinging tighter to Juliet’s hand.

“Juliet doesn’t start bar fights with your cousin every Tuesday,” the Prince sighs. “And, may I point out, feud: _not_ solved—as long as you’re involved with a Capulet the Montagues will never tolerate it.”

“But Uncle, it all works out perfectly! Mercutio and Benvolio are together, after all.”

“What!?” Mercutio’s mouth drops open as he looks back and forth between Paris and the Prince. “We are no—what makes you—”

“Oh, thank _God_ , finally someone says it!” Benvolio exclaims, throwing his hands in the air.

“...Was that supposed to be a secret?” Paris stares at Mercutio in shock. “Tybalt, you knew about this, right?”

“Everyone’s known for years,” Tybalt confirms. “It was supposed to be a secret?”

“You draw pictures of him with little hearts around them,” Paris points out.

Mercutio tugs on Benvolio’s sleeve until he leans down. “How long has everyone known about this,” he whispers, although it’s still loud enough for everyone else to hear.

“When did you come to Verona?”

“Six years ago…”

“So like, five years?”

“Alright, alright, enough,” the Prince interrupts.

“I knew you’d yell at me if you found out!” Mercutio shouts, ducking behind Benvolio.

The Prince takes a deep breath. “I’m not,” he says finally. “Going to yell at you. About that. I’m pretty sure there are some other things that I will think of later, but…” he sighs. “Alright, you two are together…” Paris beams and leans against Tybalt’s shoulder. “And so are you two.” Mercutio stretches on his toes to peek out from behind Benvolio. “And somehow this happened,” he says gently to Romeo and Juliet.

“Apparently that’s just what he does when you leave him unsupervised,” Mercutio says before Benvolio pokes him. “Ow!”

“Alright, I’ll admit, you seem to have solved ‘my feud’,” the Prince says finally, standing up from behind the desk. “But if you’ve been with Tybalt this whole time, then…”

“Yes?” Paris smiles.

“Then...you must know who Volpe is. But...my guards never saw you, only…”

Mercutio and Tybalt exchange glances. Benvolio stares determinedly out the window. Juliet and Romeo gaze into each others’ eyes dreamily.

Paris sighs. _I suppose this had to happen._ Pulling the silver mask out from under his scarf, he slowly lets the velvet ribbons spill through his hands as he drops it on the Prince’s desk.

“...Dear lord in heaven.”

“I was just…”

“The _whole_ time?”

“Not exactly…”

“I should call my carriage out and pack you back to Florence right now.” The Prince stares down at the mask angrily.

Paris clings to Tybalt’s arm. “Uncle, please! Imagine if I hadn’t, everything would have gone wrong—besides, if you send me away now it will only put everything out of balance again, and, and—”

“Enough!” the Prince shouts.

“Please, Uncle, I’m sorry I lied to you, I didn’t realize you would be so worried…”

“Stop panicking, I’m not going to send you away.”

“Oh thank god,” Paris breathes. Tybalt reaches over to take one of his hands and squeeze it lightly.

The Prince pinches the bridge of his nose. “Heaven help me if you actually _finish_ a law degree,” he sighs.

“You’re welcome,” Paris says. “For the feud.”

“...Do _not_ think you’re out of trouble for this.”

Paris smiles blissfully, resting his cheek against Tybalt’s gold embroidery. “Nothing could be further from my mind.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Epilogue and timeline of what Romeo and Juliet were doing while everyone else wasn't paying attention coming later :3  
> Love these boys...


	16. (epilogue)

Paris sighs, leafing idly through the heap of account sheets on his desk. _God, I have a_ desk _now…_

Three weeks after Paris nearly by accident foiled Romeo and Juliet's double suicide attempt, the Prince seems no closer to relenting in his frustration. He ought, Paris thinks, to be rewarding him for solving the feud, but instead he's stuck in an office— _God, I have an office_ —planning Romeo and Juliet's official wedding and a week of public festivals surrounding it. 

Paris has to admit his uncle has a point about wanting to keep him in one place so he knows he isn't running around the rooftops in a mask, even if he's still unaware of the best reason for this course of action—with nothing to do but sit around in his room or his office, the stitches are finally nearly healed. But did the Prince have to drown him in so much paperwork?

Paris looks up as the door opens. “Tybalt! Thank God, come and put me out of my misery. I'm going to go mad if I have to do any more figures.”

Tybalt laughs. “Wedding planning going well?”

Paris picks up a sheet of paper between two two fingers and looks at it blankly. “What kind of music does your cousin like?”

“You could ask her…”

“I did, and she just said anything is fine as long as she’s married. And that’s very sweet and noble of her, but _I’m_ the one stuck planning this thing, and I have to make sure they’re the _most_ married any two people in Verona have ever been!” He groans and drops his face into the pile of papers. “Do you think two nights of fireworks is enough? Mercutio is making Romeo ask me for three…”

“Oh, hang the fireworks.” Tybalt snatches the paper from his hand and tosses it aside as he sits on the edge of the desk.

“A brilliant idea,” Paris says, pushing the rest of the papers out of the way as he scrambles eagerly onto the desk, kicking a ledger to the floor in the process. “And how are dear Lord and Lady Capulet handling things?” he asks once the first kiss is out of the way.

“...You may have noticed how much time I’m spending here.”

Paris mock-gasps. “And here I thought it was for the pleasure of my company! And my excellent and spacious desk…”

“I suppose the company isn’t entirely objectionable,” Tybalt says, putting an arm around Paris’ hips to pull him closer. “Anyway, they’ve finally finished threatening to kill me for helping ‘that Montague whelp abduct our precious jewel and ruin our House’.”

“And this is...good?” Paris says, looking at the rueful smile on Tybalt’s lips.

“Well, now they’re trying to convince me to seduce you for your money.”

“And how is that going for you.” Paris seizes the opportunity for another kiss.

“I feel like it’s going alright. What do you think?”

Paris gives his sweetest smile. “Oh, I don’t know, I think I could feel a _tiny_ bit more…”

“Paris you got a— _oh god why_.” Mercutio shoves a letter into the hand Paris holds out and bolts, slamming the door behind him. 

“Damn, I thought he was with Benvolio,” Paris sighs, slipping Tybalt’s dagger out of its sheath to slit the letter open. “Denmark? Who do I know in...Horatio! Darling Horatio, I haven’t heard from him since he left to finish his degree in Germany…” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made a fanmix for Paris and Tybalt which you can find here: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/58KNMjza5HotzSKQw90eOI
> 
> Timeline of Romeo and Juliet Being Left Unattended:  
> Chap 5 - Romeo first encounters Juliet at the ball.  
> Chap 6 - Tybalt misses Romeo sneaking around the back by running off to a bar  
> Chap 7-8 - Juliet and Romeo slip out to get married  
> Chap 11 - Romeo tells Mercutio and Benvolio about marrying Juliet  
> Chap 12 - Word of Juliet's secret marriage filters back to the Capulets  
> Chap 13-14 - Romeo and Juliet flee and meet at the theatre


End file.
